Betrayal
by CSIGurlie07
Summary: When Ziva is returned to Mossad instead of becoming a Special Agent, how far will Gibbs go to get her back? *ALT. ENDING TO "GOOD COP, BAD COP"*
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I know, I know, it has been way too long since I've updated. But there is a possibly good reason for it. See, one of the reviews I received made me think about how Gibbs might possibly confront Eli David head-to-head over Ziva... well, this is my response to that question. I couldn't get it out of my head long enough to write anything for my existing stories, so I started writing it down... and it turned into an epic. So this is the first chapter of a two-week endeavor that is only halfway done. I am hesitant to post the whole thing, because it's been difficult to write and it feels to me like it kinda drags... so I'm going to post the first couple chapters and see where it leads. I think I might rewrite it possibly too, to make it a bit more digestible. Who knows. So yeah, if you like the first couple chapters, let me know and I'll keep posting. If you guys hate it, I'll move on. But I'm definitely posting chapter 2, to help you get a feel for the story. It'll probably up in the next 24 hours, as it's already written.

Premise: An alternate ending to "Good Cop, Bad Cop". What would happen if Ziva had been taken back to Mossad instead of becoming an Agent? This story references Something More, as well as contains spoilers for previous episodes spread from Season 3 onwards....

So, on with the show!!!

* * *

"This is bullshit and you know it!"

Gibbs' shout echoed in the silent squad bay as the rest of his broken team stood wordlessly watching. Vance, the focus of Gibbs' outrage, calmly removed his toothpick from between his teeth.

"My hands are tied, Agent Gibbs," he said, his voice cool. "I have no way to keep her here. She's not an agent, hell she's not even a citizen. Israel has issued an official request for extradition, and I am bound to honor it."

"You don't have a way?! You are more than capable of bending the rules when it suits you. You just don't think you have a good enough reason," Gibbs growled. "Have you forgotten what she's done for NCIS? For the team, and for you?" Gibbs stepped forward in challenge. "The last time she was shipped off to Tel Aviv on _your_ orders she was almost killed in that damn bomb blast, just so you could flush out your mole."

"She's damaged goods, Gibbs," Vance replied evenly. "There's no guarantee she'd be of any further use to this agency even if there was a way to keep her here. Which there isn't." The toothpick returned to its customary place between white teeth. "Officer Ben-Gidon will escort Officer David back to Tel Aviv. You and your team are not to have any further contact with her."

"What?!" Abby cried. "That's not fair!"

"Abby…" McGee warned, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"No!" she protested, shrugging off the hand. "We didn't get a chance to say goodbye last time! And look what happened! She's been through enough without even getting to say goodbye!"

"No contact, Miss Sciuto," Vance repeated unyieldingly, "or you will be in violation of international law." With that, the Director turned and headed towards the elevator.

"This is bullshit," Gibbs said again, following him. "You said you and Eli David were friends—I didn't realize that was code for you being his bitch." Vance turned swiftly to face Gibbs just as they reached the elevator, the director's eyes flashing dangerously.

"I understand you were a Marine," he said, still calm, but his voice now sharp with authority, "and as such you are protective of your people. But she isn't yours, agent Gibbs. Never was, never will be."

"That's where you're dead wrong," Gibbs contradicted, his voice fierce with pride. "She earned her place on my team, and she earned my trust."

"On her father's orders."

"Yeah, she told me. But her father didn't order her to save my life, or Jenny's life. He didn't order her to risk her neck for the sake of a case, or to do something for the sake of it being the _right_ thing to do. That was all her."

"Regardless," Vance said, looking past Gibbs to watch the two Mossad officers approach, "she is Mossad, and Mossad has recalled her."

Gibbs turned to follow the Director's gaze to find a smug Ben-Gidon was walking beside Ziva. The emotionless mask on her face revealed to Gibbs that she was resigned to her fate. It occurred to Gibbs that she may have even been expecting it. But she didn't want it. She had applied to become an NCIS Special Agent, for citizen status. She wouldn't have done that if she wanted to return to Israel. And now the country she had called home for the past four years had turned its back on her, had stalled just long enough for Mossad to swoop in and reclaim her.

"Ziva!" Abby called out, noticing her friend's arrival. Ziva looked up, but it was Gibbs' gaze she met. Her expression was blank, but he was taken aback by the emotions swirling in the depths of her brown eyes. Guilt was predominant, most likely for the death of Staff Sergeant Cryer. Helplessness was dangerously close to the surface as well, but when she looked into his eyes, something shifted, and suddenly her gaze was saying what her voice could not.

_Please._

Her silent cry for help was as clear to him as if she had shouted it. As the two Israelis came closer, Ziva started to drift towards him, only to be stopped by the restraining hand of her unit leader.

"Come, Ziva," Ben-Gidon said in English, sending the Marine a challenging stare that went unnoticed by the older man. The Israeli tapped the call button and was rewarded by the doors immediately sliding open with a ding.

Gibbs remained frozen as Ziva was guided into the familiar elevator. He stood helplessly as she turned to face him again as Ben-Gidon pressed the button for the ground floor. But this time Ziva refused to meet his gaze, instead keeping her eyes downcast. But that did not keep Gibbs from seeing the single that escaped the corner of her eye. Gibbs watched the path it traced down her cheek until the doors slid closed, finally hiding her completely from his view.

It was then that the hopelessness of the situation hit him. He had just found her again, had just started to cut through the haze she had shrouded herself in since her rescue. And now she was gone, and he had been powerless to save her this time. He could not shield her from the might of Mossad. Only NCIS could have done that, and its director had decided she was too broken to bother protecting her. Fury burned in Gibbs' gut as he stared at the closed metal doors. Turning back to Vance, he stepped close so that the Director could hear his lowered voice.

"You think she's too damaged to be a decent investigator," Gibbs said. "She's sure as hell too broken to be any good as Komemiute or Kidon. So what do you think is gonna happen when your friend, Director David, realizes his daughter is no longer his perfect assassin?"

Vance glanced at him, and Gibbs was instantly aware that the other man had not considered that factor. Gibbs considered his superior with a cold gaze.

"Congratulations Leon. You may very well have signed her death warrant." With that, Gibbs turned and left the Director standing by the elevators, returning to what remained of his team.

Tony's expression was sober, darker than the senior field agent usually sported. His hands were stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders were slack with defeat. But his gaze was knowing; he wasn't happy with the situation, but he understood the politics. Ducky was very much the same, but Palmer looked slightly lost. The younger medical examiner was not particularly close to Ziva, but he was not immune to the off-kilter dynamic that ran through the group. McGee was surprisingly stoic. Very much the observer of the group, he had likely rationalized the situation to the point where the emotions wouldn't overcome him until he was safe within the comfort of his own home. Now, he would be able to function as the team's rock, which Gibbs knew Abby would need.

The Goth had stepped in front of Gibbs, blocking his path through the squad bay, her eyes were filled with unshed tears, but they did nothing to disguise the hurt and confusion as she glared at him. Her arms were wrapped around herself protectively, and her entire posture screamed vulnerability.

"How could you?" she asked Gibbs, her voice soft and uncertain. "How could you stand right there and just let her go?"

"Abs—"

"No! She's family, Gibbs. Haven't we lost enough of our family? We couldn't have saved Kate, but you had a chance to save Ziva? We couldn't have saved Kate, but you had a chance to save Ziva, and you just stood there!"

"She wouldn't be safe Abby. What can one person do against an entire country?" Gibbs' frustration was coming to the surface, and he couldn't keep it from leeching into his words.

"You think that's an excuse? Ziva wouldn't have cared, if any one of us were in her place. She would have gone to the ends of the earth to save us." Abby paced in front him for a moment before stopping to continue. "You remember when Ari tried to shoot me in my lab, and I was hiding out in the elevator because of my ex-boyfriend? You remember what you said to me? You said nothing was going to happen to me, because _you_ would keep me safe. Hasn't she earned the same protection from you?"

Abby's question rang in his ears. Her outlook was naïve, but that didn't negate its validity. This was not as simple as hiding her away from a single individual. Eli David would not rest until his daughter was returned to him—if Gibbs managed to avoid one Mossad operative, another would be waiting on the next street corner. They would not have been able to stay in DC. They would have had to go on the run, constantly on the move to stay one step ahead. But, Gibbs realized, he would have done it. For her. Shame filled him as he realized his mistake. He should not have let her go. Not a second time.

Without another word, Gibbs left the squad bay. He bypassed the elevator, instead going straight for the stairwell. He went down to the parking deck and made a beeline for his car. He left the Navy Yard, but as soon as he passed security he followed no specific route. He couldn't go home—he simply drove. He turned onto side streets and navigated tight one-way streets. When he finally took a moment to orientate himself, it took him several long moments to recognize his surroundings—twenty some miles from the Navy Yard.

His mind raced. Maybe he wasn't too late. There had to be something he could do. Suddenly he remembered something: a number. Ziva had given it to him when she went to Israel for a week after the team had been reunited after Jenny's death. She had told him to use it if her cell didn't work and he needed to contact her. Gibbs pulled out his wallet and dug around in it for the scrap of paper the number had been written on. When he finally had it in his fingertips he held the faded paper in front of him. The sight of Ziva's familiar handwriting threatened to send him into a tailspin, but he forced himself to focus as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number.

His call was answered after only two rings.

"Bashan," said an accented male voice.

"I need to speak to Ziva David."

"A long moment of silence followed Gibbs' declaration He could hear the rustle of paper and the creak of a chair as the speaker on the other end shifted.

"To whom am I speaking?" Officer Bashan said finally.

"NCIS Special Agent Gibbs."

"Ah yes. Special Agent Gibbs. You do not have clearance to speak with Officer David." Before Gibbs had a chance to protest, Bashan continued. "Even if you did, your call would have been in vain. She is not at the Embassy."

"Well where the hell is she?"

"She and Officer Ben-Gidon traveled directly to the airstrip. Their transport departed fifteen minutes ago." Gibbs' heart sank, but he wasn't letting go so easily this time.

"Where can I contact her in Tel Aviv?"

"As I informed you earlier, Agent Gibbs, you do not have the clearance to speak with Officer David. The Director has issued explicit orders that Ziva is not to speak with any American. By giving you any further information as to her whereabouts, I would be in violation of a direct order. I suggest you return to your team, Agent Gibbs. Let her go."

"I can't—"

"Do not contact this number again." Bashan's curt words were followed by a sharp click and the resultant monotone of dead air. Gibbs slammed his phone shut and chucked it violently onto the passenger seat before slamming his hand into the steering wheel, pummeling the molded plastic in frustration and anger. He let loose with a few choice expletives as well before his anger gave way to despair. He ran a calloused hand over his face, trying to keep his tears at bay as images flooded his mind.

He saw scenes of Ziva smiling as they cooked dinner together, laughing as they worked in his basement. He saw her sleeping peacefully against him, her features blessedly unburdened by nightmares of Somalia. Then his mind inevitably flew to that day in the desert, seeing her gazing back at him from where she was being supported by Tony and McGee. Seeing her glaze over as she moved through the weeks that followed, removing herself from her surroundings. And then, seeing a glimmer of her old self as she asked to become an NCIS Special Agent… Only to see it disappear again when Vance questioned her about the _Damocles_.

It was then that he realized he had failed her in more ways than one. And this time he couldn't simply apologize and hope that she would forgive him. He couldn't seek revenge and find a pleasant surprise in finding her instead. This time, he couldn't save her.

He was too late.


	2. Chapter 2

The weeks that followed were bleak and unmemorable. Gibbs' team functioned only enough to work the cases that came across their desks. Beyond that, they barely spoke. His own relationship with Abby became strained and uncomfortable. She still accepted his customary gifts of CafPows, but there weren't any affectionate hugs or kisses. She delivered the results of the tests she ran, and when she was done, she turned back to her work as he left her lab on silent feet. His team was broken, and they all knew it.

Gibbs refused to choose a new Agent to fill Ziva's desk, forcing Vance to send his own choices down for trial runs. None of them ever lasted long—Tony and McGee were more than willing to work their magic, and Gibbs didn't stop them from tormenting the Probies. Vance had abandoned his efforts to force Gibbs to put a stop to the team's antics. The Director knew the team's silent rebellion for what it was; even Ducky and Abby had joined in on shunning the new agents assigned to the team. They refused to acknowledge the Probies' presence at times, and were passive-aggressive at others. Abby had even been reprimanded several times for her scathing treatment of the new agents, but the reprimands amounted to little more than slaps on the wrist. Vance knew he could not afford to fire the forensic scientist or the medical examiner, and despite the continuous stream of new agents, the MCRT still boasted an enviable solve rate. And with there being little he could do about requests for transfers and resignations, Vance was forced to simply accept the way things were.

In the off-hours, Gibbs spent his time in his basement working on his newest boat. He had no intention of finishing it—his heart wasn't in it, and he spent more time nursing a mug of bourbon than he did working on the wooden frame. He didn't sleep in their—his bedroom—anymore. He didn't cook either, spending only enough time in the kitchen to start a pot of coffee every morning and evening. He slept either on the couch or in the basement, depending on the amount of alcohol he consumed each night.

Two months after Ziva had been recalled back to Israel, Gibbs was making a pot of coffee when a heavy knocking on the front door echoed through the otherwise empty house. He entertained a brief curiosity before he took his service weapon from the kitchen table and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Though he doubted someone intending him harm would knock on an unlocked door, he could hear Ziva's words echoing through his mind: "You knock on the door, they answer, you shoot them, Easy!" Just as it had the first time she had said them, the words made Gibbs smile. Only this time there was no mirth in his smile, and it disappeared as he swung the door open to reveal a bespectacled grey-haired man who was smartly dressed in a well-tailored suit.

"Special Agent Gibbs." The man said in a lilting, accented that Gibbs immediately recognized. "We must speak."

"You've got a hell of a lot of nerve coming here," Gibbs growled at Officer Bashan, venom dripping from his voice. Bashan did not rise to the bait, instead regarding Gibbs with serious eyes.

"It is about Ziva."

Gibbs' heart caught in his throat at the mention of her name. He could barely do more than numbly step aside to allow Bashan entrance. The Israeli had called her Ziva this time, not Officer David. And his tone was enough to convince Gibbs that whatever the Officer's intentions were, they were less than murderous. What those intensions could be, however, terrified Gibbs; had Ziva been sent on another mission? Gibbs knew that if she had been, she would see to it that she did not return. Her final words to him in the interrogation room had been more than enough to convince him of that.

Gibbs waved Bashan towards the living room, indicating for the older man to take a seat. The Israeli did so, perching in the seat of the easy chair and resting his elbows on his knees. Gibbs sat adjacent to him in the corner of the sofa. It was several moments before Gibbs gathered the courage to speak.

"Is she…?" He couldn't finish. Luckily, Bashan was able to guess his meaning.

"She is not dead," the Officer reassured him. "She is alive."

"I would have thought she'd have been put in the field by now," Gibbs scoffed, his relief not enough to keep the edge from his voice.

"No. Ziva will never go on another mission. Her father has acknowledged that she is broken." Bashan's tone was careful; Gibbs recognized it as that of a man who disapproved of a superior's actions but did not want to be insubordinate.

"Well, I doubt Director David cares if I know whether or not Ziva is safe," Gibbs remarked. He was now curious: why was Bashan here?

"I am not here on orders, Agent Gibbs." The Marine regarded him as a cool smirk curled his lips.

"Nah, really?" The Israeli ignored Gibbs' sarcasm.

"I need your help, Agent Gibb," Officer Bashan continued. "Ziva David is alive, but she is not well." The smirk disappeared from Gibbs' features. "She was… as well as could be expected, when she first returned to Tel Aviv. But her father's measures to keep her safe have caused her suffer." Gibbs straightened.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"She has not been permitted to leave the family home since her return two months ago. The effort her father had to go to for her to return home has convinced him that he cannot trust her to not attempt to leave the country if given complete freedom. The family estate has been put under twenty four hour surveillance with multiple operatives on site to both protect her and keep her on the grounds."

"Jesus Christ." Gibbs ran a worried hand over his eyes.

"I fear she has become lost in herself," Bashan continued. "She did not acknowledge my presence when I paid her a visit last week. The staff tells me she was not uttered a word for the past month, and has not left her room in five weeks. She eats very little and sleeps even less." Bashan paused. "I have seen this before in other operatives who have survived enemy capture. Many have recovered, but they had family and friends to help them through it, as well as the freedom to move about as they please."

"And Ziva doesn't."

"The Director feels his time is better spent at Mossad, after she refused to answer his questions about her experiences since her assignment to the Kidon unit. He has not been to visit her since the first week. She has no one else."

"And what the hell can I do about it?" Gibbs said in frustration, standing up to pace the room. "She's 7,000 miles away! Unless you're thinking of getting her back to the U.S., I can't… I can't help her." He words scalded his throat.

"I cannot bring her to America, Agent Gibbs," Officer Bashan said, "no matter how much I may wish to. But I can bring you to her." Gibbs froze as he processed what the Israeli was saying.

"What?"

"I have brought my concerns about Ziva's condition to Director David's attention, and he agrees that something needs to be done. I have been assigned the task of getting Ziva the care she needs. He wants her fixed, and he wants it done as efficiently as possible."

"Even if it means I'll be in contact with her?"

"Adonai, no," Bashan said with a wry chuckle. "No, you would not be going as Agent Gibbs. You would be going as Dr. Kenneth Ross, a psychiatric counselor who has done extensive work with victims of PTSD. Your cover is the best in the field, and you are interested in working with Ziva one on one." Another pause. "That is, if you agree."

"I'm in." There was no hesitation.

"I cannot tell you how long you may have to be there, or how long it will take for her to recover. For I know she may never recover, Agent Gibbs—" Bashan tried to warn him, but Gibbs was having none of it.

"I'll stay as long as she needs me," he said brusquely. "When do I leave?" Bashan smiled.

"Give me 24 hours to finish solidifying your new identity and secure you a place to stay in the city." The wizened officer stood. "Everything will be ready for you by Thursday morning." Gibbs nodded—that would give him time to put his affairs in order. "You will receive all necessary documents and travel information tomorrow night." Officer Bashan extended an open palm to Gibbs. "Thank you, Agent Gibbs." Gibbs grasped the hand with a firm, but amiable grip.

"No," the Marine said in return, "thank you."

* * *

A/N: Let's just get this out of the way: Eli David is not a good man. He is dirty. (If you don't recognize these words, this story probably won't mean much to you, so you should go onto and watch "Good Cop, Bad Cop")... The whole point of this story is to see Gibbs go head to head with Eli, and in order to do that efficiently, I must truly villify Eli David. So don't be expecting a surprise conciliation at the end of all this. On the other hand, for some reason, I always end up making Officer Bashan (you don't know who he is, go back and watch 4x01 "Shalom") a good guy. His performance in the show could be seen as ambivalent, but I like to think he cares for Ziva but his hands are tied by the politics of being high-ranking Mossad. Hm. Makes me want to watch the episode again.

So yeah, no squawking about father-daughter alliances/bonds between Eli and Ziva. Not likely to happen, even in the show. Speaking of which, anyone else get the feeling we haven't seen the last of Eli David in the show? I'm kinda hoping he shows up sometime... The actor who plays him is excellent, no?

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Chapter 3 is on the way!


	3. Chapter 3

Gibbs left the Director's office with a determined stride. He had already told Dinozzo that he was in charge of what was left of the MCRT, and now Vance was aware of Gibbs' request for an extended leave of absence, effective immediately. Now there were only two more people left to inform, and there was no question as to whom to speak with first. Gibbs wasted no time in getting to the elevator that led to Abby's lab.

As he entered the conspicuously quiet lab and saw Abby waiting for him in her office with a guarded expression, Gibbs realized she already heard the news. Tony perhaps, or maybe McGee, had gotten to her first.

"Abby—" Gibbs started, only to be cut off by the forensic scientist.

"You're leaving," she accused in a dark voice. "Again."

"Yeah."

"I should've known this was coming." She turned away from Gibbs' well meaning hand as it reached to pat her shoulder. It returned to his side. "Mexico again?"

"No." This made Abby freeze.

"Where?"

"Israel."

It was all Gibbs could say without compromising himself, but luckily, it was all Abby needed to hear. The Goth whirled around, her eyes wide. They shone with hope and excitement before closing tightly as she clutched Gibbs in a fierce hug. Gibbs returned it without hesitation, welcoming the intimacy that had become so scarce in his life.

"Bring her home," Abby murmured.

Gibbs didn't answer. He couldn't—he would not promise her something he wasn't certain he could deliver. But one thing was certain: he may not be able to bring Ziva home, but he would not leave her to face her demons alone.

Not again.

* * *

A/N: Short and sweet! Next couple chapters are where things get iffy. Please be honest as they get posted. If it doesn't work, please review and let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Here's probably the last chapter for the weekend, because something has come up. But hopefully on Monday I can post something else. Just so you know, I have unfortunately never been to Israel, and have been forced to loosely base the Israel in this story on pictures I found on the Internet. *sigh* I wish I have been there... One day... So yeah, don't slam me on the improper description of Israel. I did my best...

Enjoy!

* * *

By Friday morning Gibbs was watching the burnt countryside of Israel flash by as Bashan's personal chauffer drove Gibbs out of the city and towards the David family estate.

What little Ziva had told him about her homeland did not do it justice, Gibbs decided.

Clear azure skies spotted with wisps of pure white clouds put the land below in glorious relief. The heart of Israel was metropolitan, with urban skyscrapers and glass reflecting the bright desert sun, but the farther they traveled out of the city, the more rustic the architecture became. In these areas it seemed as if time stood still, snapshots of the heritage the country claimed.

The city was on the coast, and at this time of year, the weather was cool and pleasant, and sunny almost to a fault. But Gibbs could not deny that the hot sun suited the city. Though much of Israel was a desert, especially around Tel Aviv, but as they traveled north, the landscape became greener, with vibrant flowers, trees, and shrubs nesting in the fertile soil. The sight would have taken his breath away, had he not been so preoccupied with what he was about to find at his destination.

Finally the car pulled through an open wrought iron gate and into a long driveway, coming to a stop about six feet down from its peak, where the David family home sat, regal and imposing. Gibbs exited the car, and took a moment to gaze at the large house in front of him. It seemed the beauty of her homeland hadn't been the only thing Ziva had understated; she had never mentioned that her family was wealthy. It figured though, that one of the most powerful men in Israel had personal wealth as well.

The mansion was different from the homes of the "old money" families in America. It was large yes, but not ostentatiously so. It was crisp and clean, with light walls that spoke of a simple elegance. The sloping driveway he stood on was paved with smooth light-colored stone, and led to a set of heavy double doors. The wood was light in color, perhaps white ash or alder. They were shaded by an overhang that was supported by two simple Doric columns that edged up against the driveway.

Gibbs and his borrowed driver had already passed three men in dark suits at the gate, and the Marine could see another two moving about near the west corner of the house. A fluttering curtain alerted him to the presence of at least one individual on the ground floor, but whether it was another suit or simply a member of "the staff", Gibbs wasn't certain.

Making sure his important documents, all in the name of Dr. Kenneth Ross, PHD, were safe in his soft leather briefcase (borrowed from Ducky, who had promised it would aid his cover), Gibbs made his way up to the large entrance. A perfunctory knock thudded against the heavy wooden doors, and after a few long moments, the door opened to reveal a woman in a conservative maid uniform. Her eyes flicked briefly to Gibbs' before looking away respectfully as she uttered a soft _shalom_.

"_Shalom_," Gibbs returned, before switching back to English. "I am—"

"Doctor Ross," the woman replied, her eyes meeting his again. Her eyes were warm and kind, framed by crow's feet and laugh lines. She looked to be in her late sixties, early seventies, Gibbs observed as he stepped into the open foyer. The older woman closed the door behind him. "We have been expecting you."

"Chava!" The woman looked up calmly to regard the large burly man who was approaching from the hallway that led straight back into the house. He was dressed similarly to the guards at the gate, in a basic black suit. The man fired something off in rapid Hebrew, which Gibbs didn't even try to decipher. Instead he studied the woman's reaction.

Chava seemed unfazed by the man's verbal reprimand, and regarded him with a haughty eye. Once the man finished speaking, there was a long moment before the woman purposefully nodded once, and the turned and the left the foyer at a relaxed pace. The interaction was simple and brief, but it was enough for Gibbs to infer who really held the power in the house.

The burly man ultimately had the final word, but Chava had an extremely long leash. She was old, experienced, and at ease in the atmosphere of the house; Gibbs predicted she had been with the family for a long time, and had earned herself a great deal of leeway with the Director. She was the head of the household in Eli's absence, and Gibbs guessed she would end up being a wealth of knowledge of the family in the future. He made a mental note to get in the housekeeper's good graces.

"Doctor Ross," the burly man said, pulling Gibbs' attention back to him. "I am Officer Reuben, Head of Security here at the estate. As disrespectful as Chava was, she was correct—we have been expecting you."

"So you know why I am here," Gibbs replied, with the prescribed politeness that was expected of him. "I'd prefer to not waste any time. Where can I find Ms. David?" Reuben's eyes turned icy cold at the mention of Ziva's name. The change was not all that surprising to Gibbs.

"She is upstairs," Rueben replied brusquely. He clicked the two-way radio on his hip twice, and almost immediately a younger suited man appeared from one of the adjacent rooms. "Officer Odavia here will lead you to her room," Rueben continued. "If you need anything while you are here, do not hesitate to notify the staff. All of the Director's employees are fluent in English, so there should be no problem with communication." With that, Officer Reuben left the two men, exiting the front door and shutting it behind him with a sharp click. Officer Odavia immediately brightened in the absence of his superior officer.

"Doctor Ross," he said, his young voice lilting as he addressed Gibbs, "it is an honor to meet you." The kid couldn't be more than 25, Gibbs determined. "Please follow me. I will take you to Officer David." Gibbs nodded and proceeded to follow the Officer's steps as he turned and led Gibbs up the sweeping staircase that led up to the second floor. As they climbed, Gibbs was able to fully appreciate the apparent wealth the David family possessed. The impressive foyer sported a light-colored marble floor and white walls. The ceiling was a good 30 feet, making the space seem more expansive than it actually was. A single glass table standing against the inner wall of the staircase housed a single lamp, and an ornate chandelier hung from the vaulting ceiling. There was no clutter, and not an errant speck of dust could be seen.

Officer Odavia led Gibbs up the stairs and then directly up another flight of steps that curled up to the third floor. When Gibbs hesitated, taking in the plush sitting room they came upon, Odavia had to come back to retrieve him.

"Come, Doctor Ross," the younger man said. "I am sure you are anxious to see Officer David." Gibbs nodded and turned to follow the Israeli as they traveled down a long hallway. When they came to a stop outside the door at the very end of it, Officer Odavia turned to Gibbs.

"Do you really think you can help Officer David?" The question took Gibbs by surprise, and the genuine concern in the younger mans eyes urged Gibbs to speak as honestly as if he were speaking to McGee or Tony.

"I can't answer that," Gibbs replied. The officer's crest-fallen expression prodded Gibbs to pose a question of his own. "Officer Odavia," he said, "why is it that you refer to as Officer David while Officer Reuben refuses to?"

"Officer Reuben no longer considers her to an officer of Mossad. He does not believe one so broken, one whose loyalties are so questionable, should share his title."

"And feel otherwise?" Ducky would be proud of Gibbs' astute line of questioning, Gibbs observed.

"I have heard stories of Officer David, even as a lowly trainee. She is something of a legend to us, Doctor Ross. I once observed her run a mission once, in Jordan, and I know the stories are not exaggerated. She is the strongest officer I have yet met, and she survived something not many others would have. That kind of strength deserves honor and respect, not scorn."

"You don't question her loyalty?"

"It is true she did not want to leave America, Doctor Ross," Odavia responded. "But I have been to America, and I have had the good fortune of having a pleasurable experience. While I would not trade my homeland for it, I can understand her reluctance to return. It is peaceful there, and she formed close relations with her colleagues in the short time she was there. After the experiences she has had, it is small wonder she would cling to them." He looked Gibbs in the eye.

"Some of our superiors claim the Americans have brainwashed her, but those of us who have had the honor of working with Officer David know that she is much too strong to succumb to feeble American machinations. She is not known as the Daughter of Mossad for nothing, Doctor Ross. They dishonor the good work she has done for our country, and even I as an operative with limited experience know it to be wrong." Odavia squared his shoulders, and suddenly he seemed ten years older. "I hope your reputation is well deserved, Doctor Ross. If you need anything while you are here, please let me know. I wish for Officer David to be well."

With that, the young officer opened the door. As Gibbs stepped past him into the room, Gibbs considered the possibility that the youth may be harboring a crush for Ziva. Gibbs honestly couldn't blame him—after all, hadn't he himself fallen for the dangerous Israeli? But as the door closed behind him, the thought was pushed to the back of his mind. He focused on the room around him.

It was spacious, though the ceilings were only ten feet high—low, compared to the rest of the rooms he had yet seen. It sported a nondescript color scheme: sandy tones and off-whites made the most of the natural light that flooded the room by way of large windows on the eastern wall. A small night table stood beside a large bed, the covers of which were smooth and unrustled. A door off to the right led to a private bath, which Gibbs could see was vacant.

The bedroom as a whole was beautiful, but Gibbs noticed that it was conspicuously lacking something. There was nothing in this room that marked it as Ziva's. There were no pictures, no books. There was none of the clutter that Gibbs' own home sported; nothing that belied the fact that someone lived in it. To Gibbs, despite its clean lines and smooth colors, the room was bland and impersonal. And the most disturbing fact was that Ziva herself was nowhere in sight. The bed didn't look like it had been slept in for quite some time, though Gibbs hoped that was not the case. The plush chairs by the eastern windows were empty, and a reading chair on the northwest wall was as well.

Gibbs stepped further into the room, making a 360-degree visual sweep to ensure that he did not overlook any corners. But there was no sign of life in the room. However, despite the evidence, Gibbs doubted that Odavia would have led him to the wrong room. He walked towards the windows, intending to survey the estate grounds while he assessed his options, but as he passed the end of the bed, a motionless shape in the corner of his eye made him freeze.

It was Ziva, sitting on the floor with her back to the bed that had hidden her from view. Her legs, clad in loose tan pants, were pulled up close to her chest. A white long-sleeved top obscured her form, but it was immediately evident to Gibbs that her condition had deteriorated considerably since he had last seen her. After her rescue, Ziva had been slightly too slender to be considered healthy, but she was now much too thin. Only her previously muscled physique prevented her from being skeletal, but her prominent joints and the way her clothes hung from her limbs caused Gibbs' alarm to sky rocket.

She was clean, as were her clothes, which was a small comfort—he hoped it meant she was still capable of caring for herself, and not that one of the staff had taken it upon themselves to ensure she remained presentable. As he stepped closer to Ziva, Gibbs made a mental note to ask Chava when he had a chance.

"Ziva," Gibbs said, his voice soft, but loud enough so that it would be heard.

Ziva didn't respond; she didn't even blink, which alarmed Gibbs even more than her drastic weight loss had. Her face remained expressionless, her eyes unfocused as she dwelled within her own thoughts. Gibbs closed the rest of the gap between them, kneeling in front of her to gaze directly into her eyes.

"Ziver, it's me," he said, his voice threatening to break. He reached with one hand to stroke her hair, pushing it away from her face as his other hand covered her clasped ones. "Oh Jesus," he whispered when she didn't flinch, didn't move, only blinking sluggishly when his fingers came dangerously close to her left eye.

"Ziva, can you hear me? It's Gibbs. I'm here."

But his words went unheard, and the truth of the situation washed over him. He had seen the beginnings of her dissociation from her surroundings after she had been rescued, and he had fought to keep her grounded. But now, after being surrounded by people she no longer trusted, there had been no one to pull her back into reality, and now she was gone. He had never intended to let her get anywhere near this bad, and her current catatonic state both shocked and frightened him. Was he too late after all? Was she too far gone for him to help?

Suddenly, the questions faded away, as he realized that their answers were inconsequential. It didn't matter if she were too broken to ever return to the woman she once was. He was here, with her, and he had no intention of leaving her again. He had let her down too many times to abandon her another time.

Gibbs shifted, sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of her, his hand never leaving hers.

He was staying—for as long as it took.


	5. Chapter 5

As the days passed, Gibbs began to fall into a pattern, mimicking Ziva's own routine. Though he never spent the night in the house, for the sake of his cover's respectability, the housekeeper Chava took it upon herself to fill him in on everything that happened in his absence. Every morning, Ziva showered and changed her clothes. It came as a relief to Gibbs as it indicated that she was still functioning on some basic level, still able to follow routines. About every three days she would climb onto the bed and sleep for a couple of hours, only to rise well before dawn and shower for the day. As soon as she changed into clean clothes she would find a place to sit. Though the locations varied, Gibbs noticed that she seemed to prefer the protection that corners offered. She would curl up, bringing her legs close to her chest. And there she would remain, shifting only a few times throughout the day.

Gibbs also learned that the household staff did not share Officer Reuben's sentiments in regard to Ziva's loyalty. Many of them were concerned for the young woman, particularly Chava and her husband Benjamin, who was employed as the estate's butler. Both had been with the family for many years, and seemed to share a tenderness for the girl they had seen grow up. They inquired about her every evening, hoping for news of progress, and remained hopeful despite each report of 'no change'. As Gibbs continued to return, they came to trust him, and began to share stories of Ziva's childhood.

Benjamin had started working at the estate when Ziva was seven, and Chava joined the household after Ziva's mother died when Ziva was twelve. Eli David's strict rules prevented Ziva and her older brother Ari from forming close relationships with the staff, but had failed to prevent the affection the couple had developed for the children. Tali, being both the youngest and seemingly exempt from Eli's political machinations, had been easier to befriend, but it had been Ziva they had come to worry about the most.

Their memories painted Ziva as a child of contradictions. She was vibrant, though reserved much of the time, as she was careful to avoid crossing her father. But her fiery nature had been impossible to keep in check, and would erupt in the form of violence at school, or in the neighborhood, or in the form of pranks when she needed to simply burn off energy. The staff had often been victims of her plots, but since the tricks were relatively harmless, Chava had forbidden the rest of the household workers to bring them to the attention of Director David.

Gibbs' suspicions about Eli's parenting style were confirmed when Chava recounted Ziva's drive to always be the best, and the bruises she sported when she was anything less. Tali never had such bruises—if Tali ever did anything that incurred the Director's wrath, it would be Ziva who limped the next day. Benjamin knew it was not because of Eli's aversion to striking his youngest child; the Butler had once witnessed a ten year old Ziva throwing herself between her father's heavy hand and her baby sister.

As he learned about her past little by little, Gibbs found his gut twisiting with a myriad of emotions. Anger, at Eli David, who had done everything but appreciate his daughter for who she was. Pride, for Ziva, who even at such a young age had retained her ability to care for others. He felt lucky as well, that Ziva had shared as much of herself as she had with him. And then guilt, when he remembered how he had abused that trust. But he hid all emotions from the Israelis, keeping the cool mask of a curious psychiatrist carefully in place.

It was three weeks, five days, and sixteen hours after Gibbs first arrived in Israel when Ziva first gave the slightest indication that she was aware of his presence. It had been an afternoon he had been reading aloud to her—from her English copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_—and Chava had just delivered lunch. He paused, preparing to take a break and spend some time with the staff in the kitchen as he did every afternoon at lunchtime. Setting the novel aside, he took a moment to gaze at the gaunt features of his—Ziva.

He wanted to say lover, or partner, or hell, even significant other, but he couldn't help but wonder if he had any right to claim her as his anything. His feelings towards her hadn't changed, except to grow stronger, but at the same time, part of him realized that he had forfeited any claim he had on her when he had twice failed to fight for her. It was with regret and longing churning in his gut that he reached out to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. But before his fingers made contact, Ziva moved.

She pulled out of his reach, then stood and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Gibbs remained where he was seated, shock flashing in blinding neon across his brain. His mind raced to determine whether or not he had imagined what he thought he saw. Ziva's expression hadn't changed, her eyes hadn't focused, and her trip to the bathroom was not particularly telling either—though it did not happen often, it was not the first time she had gone to relieve herself at midday.

But Gibbs had almost certainly seen her _deliberately_ avoid his touch before getting to her feet, and the trip to the bathroom could very well be a way for her to isolate herself from him. Despite the immediate indication that it was _him _she was trying to avoid, Gibbs was filled with hope. It wasn't ideal—in fact, it was far from how he had hoped she would progress—but it was something different, something that could indicate she was coming back to him.

When Ziva came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, she did not return to her original corner. Instead she moved to the adjacent corner on the far side of the room, quickly curling up as she settled into her new shelter. Gibbs decided to take the hint and give her some time to herself, at least until he had a chance to get his own lunch. But before he left to go meet Chava and Benjamin down in the kitchen, he stood and brought her lunch closer to her, setting it on the hardwood floor beside her. This time, when he gently brushed his hand against her arm, there was no reaction. She remained still, unblinking, deep in her own thoughts. But Gibbs was increasingly more certain that he had not imagined her earlier recoil. He pressed a single affectionate kiss to her hair.

"I'll be here, Ziver," he whispered into her ear. "Whenever you're ready."


	6. Chapter 6

Another week passed, and the incident did not repeat itself, much to Gibbs' chagrin. There were no other developments either, but Gibbs still held onto the hope that had flared within him that afternoon. He followed his routines, some days reading to her, some days simply sitting there with her.

The Monday after Gibbs had witnessed the possible development in Ziva's condition, the housekeeper, Chava, came to him while he was pouring himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. The usually bustling woman was subdued, as if the ragged cardboard box she carried in her arms weighed on her spirit.

"When Ziva did not come home after her last mission, Director David ordered us to remove all of Ziva's belongings from her room," the older woman said as soon as his cool blue eyes met hers. "All of her personal items were to be destroyed. Books, clothes, everything." Regret was clearly evident on Chava's weathered features. "I managed to save some of her things—I was not so eager to forget her."With reverent hands, she set the box on the marble counter top, and opened it to start removing the items stored in its depths.

Most of the items were photographs, only one or two of which framed. There was a worn paperback novel, its title printed in faded glyphs on the soft cover. A long lavender ribbon followed, and Gibbs could see more indecipherable Hebrew letters along its length. Then Chava pulled out a handful of medals, their white and blue ribbons neatly intertwined into a single bundle. Gibbs was able to guess what they had been won for when the housekeeper pulled out a well-worn pair of pointe ballet slippers. The sight of them made Gibbs' gut clench as he recalled listening to Ziva talking to suspect about her dance recitals. The way she had spoken of it even then, her passion for the sport had been tangible.

"Ballet was not her favorite form of dance," Chava told him, her fingers tracing lightly along the smooth material of the shoes, "but it was her first class. It was too delicate for her preference, but she continued because she could not bring herself to let it go."

"What other styles did she try?" Gibbs asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Oh, which ones did she _not_ try?" Chava remarked with some of her usual enthusiasm. "Modern, tap, ballroom, Latin… She enjoyed the passion of the Latin dances, but those required a partner. She never had difficulty finding boys to dance with when she wished to, but she often liked dancing on her own. Her favorite were the traditional dances of our people. I suppose it was her way of honoring those who have come before us. They were often simple dances, but they seemed to speak to her more than any of the other dances." Chava smiled. "When she needed time to herself, she would use the Great Room upstairs and just dance. It was never any style I recognized, but every single time it was beautiful. It always took my breath away."

"Her father must be very proud," Gibbs remarked. "That's quite a few medals there."

"Oh, Director David never saw Ziva dance," Chava replied, confirming what Gibbs' had suspected. "He enrolled her in her first class, but that was only so that she could learn discipline, coordination, and other such nonsense. She continued the classes for longer than her father intended, but he had allowed her to do so, no doubt because it helped in her training. Benjamin tells me that her mother went to every performance until her poor health prevented her from doing so. But that was before my time here." Chava's eyes crinkled with remembered mirth.

"I remember one morning she snuck out to dance with her friends on the beach," she continued. "She was gone all day and all night, returning in the early hours of the next morning. The director was absolutely livid… He was ready to send out all of his men out after her." Chava sighed. "She was punished severely for her disobedience, but she still went off to school that morning with a smile on her lips."

Chava's expression darkened as she placed the ballet shoes on the marble countertop with the other mementos. By this point, her husband Benjamin had joined them in the kitchen, and his hand came up to rest comfortingly on his wife's shoulder.

"Ziva no longer dances," he said, his voice soft.

"That's a shame," Gibbs remarked with some semblance of detachment, forcing himself to uphold his cover. His gut was churning ominously, knowing the picture of Ziva's past was about to become dark. "Most adults don't have time to continue the activities they enjoy in childhood. Especially to the extent that Ziva had danced."

"She has not danced a step since her sister, Tali, passed on." Chava's voice was thick with emotion. Silence fell as Gibbs fought with himself. He did not want to inquire any further—he knew most of the aftermath of Tali's death from the general conversations he had had with Ziva. He wasn't positive he wanted to know anything more detailed. But he also knew that Ducky would have jumped on the subject, knowing that it would have served as a pivotal turning point in his charge's life, providing volumes of insight.

"It was a bombing, wasn't it?" he asked for lack of anything else to say. He ran through the information Officer Bashan had given him. Gibbs definitely knew that piece of information, but he wasn't certain it was something Dr. Kenneth Ross would be aware of. But then Gibbs recalled seeing something in the dossier that he had been given along with his new identity.

_Taliha David (1982-1996)—killed in Hamas bombing._

Nothing more than a footnote, really, without even a picture to go with it, but it was enough to put him in the clear.

"Yes," Chava replied, her voice regaining some of its strength. "A suicide bomber targeted a café where Tali and Ziva were planning to meet for lunch." She paused. "Ziva was late."

"She blamed herself for not being there to protect Tali," Benjamin continued. "Her reaction was expected, given how she had always taken it upon herself to protect her sister in the past. Her passion for dancing died with Tali—Ziva devoted herself to her training, first in the IDF, then for Mossad." Benjamin sighed. "By that time young Ari was already in his senior year at Edinburgh. The director refused to allow him to see Ziva during the months following Tali's death, even though Ari had already arranged to take time off from his studies to help her mourn. They were only permitted to speak briefly at the funeral before they were separated, with Ari being escorted back to Europe to complete his schooling."

"Such a pity," Chava remarked. She lowered her voice, her eyes shifting carefully about the room. "We are not even permitted to speak his name anymore," she hushed, giving Gibbs a conspiratorial glance. "But that boy was the only person Ziva had looking out for her beside herself." Chava smiled once more. "And I do believe Ziva idolized her brother, if I am not mistaken."

"You are not mistaken at all," Benjamin reassured her. "They were more alike than either would like to admit. Those two shared a special bond, most likely because of how they were raised—there was something about them that Tali did not have." The older gentleman briefly glanced through the scattering of pictures on the countertop before plucking one from the pile. "Here," he said, handing the photo to Gibbs, "this is all three of them."

Gibbs took the photograph, his heart heavy. Ziva had never told him much about her past, but he now saw pieces of the mystery falling together. He looked at the photo to see a smiling Ziva, no older than seven or eight years old, and a young but unmistakable Ari Haswari posing side by side. Looking at them side by side, it was impossible to overlook the resemblance between them. Their smiles appeared genuine, but their eyes held shadows of dark secrets in their depths. Off to the side, a little ways into the background, a third child crouched to investigate something on the ground. The small girl's back was to the camera, but Gibbs was able to infer that this was Tali David.

"I remember when that picture was taken," Chava said. "The family was in Haifa, yes?" Benjamin nodded. "Nothing ever held Tali's attention for long, except for the occasional injured animal she would nurse back to health. _Those_ she remained devoted to until they either recovered, or succumbed to their ailments. The rest of time, however, she would often let her imagination run away with her. Where Ziva filled her time with classes and sports, Tali painted pictures and wrote poetry. She was very much her mother's daughter." Chava sighed. "But Ziva and her brother were always focused, alert. They grew up too quickly, I think."

Silence fell for a moment as the housekeeper gazed at the fragments of Ziva's past that were spread out across the marble surface of the counter. Gibbs wondered how often she had looked through them through the months following Ziva's disappearance after she went after Saleem on her own. Suddenly, the Marine felt glad that even though Ziva probably had never realized it, she had had someone caring for her through the years.

"Do you think having these things will help her, Doctor Ross?" Chava asked, her eyes meeting his with heartfelt concern. Without waiting for him to answer, she continued. "If they might, please, take them." Her expression was saddened, but strong in her resolve. "They belong with her anyway."

Gibbs took a moment to consider everything he had just learned. It explained so many things—about her relationship with Mossad, about how she interacted with the team, and about her own identity in itself. It explained how the aftermath of Kate's death had affected her so much, despite the fact that her assassination of Ari had been sanctioned by her father. He thought back to the day she had stood in his basement, crying for her lost brother as she attempted to explain her betrayal to him. If he hadn't believed her when she had told him she was not mindlessly following orders when she had shot Ari, he certainly believed it now. The guilt she had felt for her actions, Gibbs now knew, ran much deeper than he had initially thought.

Not only had she killed her own brother, she had discovered that Gibbs' accusations had been true—that her brother, the one person in the world she had trusted implicitly had been a murderer and a traitor. The older brother she had admired as a child had confessed to killing Kate in cold blood, had become a monster she no longer recognized.

It was a wonder to Gibbs that she ever managed to trust anyone after a realization so devastating. It certainly explained why she had been so hesitant to trust the team. Though Ziva had fit in almost immediately, despite having to prove herself worth of filling Kate's position, she had held herself back from truly bonding with them. At the time, he had thought her lack of confidence in the team's morals, made evident when McGee had killed a Metro cop, had been a result of her simply not knowing any better. That she simply hadn't ever learned how to believe in the good of someone's nature. But now he realized that wasn't the case at all. She _had_ learned how to trust, despite her father's influence. She hadn't distrusted McGee—she had distrusted herself. She had not trusted herself to read a person's nature, because the last time she had believed someone innocent, she had been grievously wrong.

"Yes," Gibbs said finally, "they will help."


	7. Chapter 7

Gibbs spent the next few days going through the contents of the box. Though there were many photos, the one Chava and Benjamin had shown him was the only one that had captured all three David children together. He took the box upstairs to Ziva's room, and in spreading the pictures out across the floor, he was able to see what her childhood may have been like. He felt a little like Ducky, when the Scotsman was in the middle of one of his photographic autopsies. Though only Ziva could tell his the truth of her past, Gibbs could spot patterns in the photographs, and he spent hours trying to piece together the story of her childhood, using what Chava and Benjamin had told him as a guide.

There were very few snapshots of Ziva by herself—he was almost always accompanied by Tali. The youngest David looked a little like her older sister, but seeing them side by side made it impossible to overlook the stark differences between the two girls. Though their tresses shared the same shade of ebony, Tali's hair had been more wavy than curly. Tali's skin was also a shade lighter than Ziva's, which Gibbs attributed to the differences in their individual lifestyles. Tali had been a dreamer, an artist, while he knew that Ziva was always happier outdoors, where the Israeli sun would have quickly darkened her skin. Tali's eyes were a light brown—amber, compared to the mocha hue of Ziva's gaze—and sat wider apart. But there was one difference that seemed to dominate the contrast between the sisters.

Tali's smile was wider, brighter, almost goofy compared to Ziva's. Even in the pictures that boasted an obviously delighted Ziva, her smile was always… daintier, for lack of a better term. It suited her, with the delicate bone structure that Gibbs never tired of admiring, but it served to make her appear much more mature than her younger sister. Tali's grin was perpetually unassuming and carefree, very much the girl next door, and beautiful in her own right.

Their chemistry was nearly tangible in the photos. There were pictures of them at the beach, in a garden, a car, an amusement park… He noticed that many of the pictures were taken from almost the exact same distance every time—arm's length. This told him that there was no else with them to take pictures of them. They had gone to these places by themselves, and both had enjoyed themselves, without the chaperone of their parents.

In a few of the pictures there was a woman, with much younger versions of Ziva and Tali. This woman he assumed to be their mother, given her resemblance to both girls, Tali in particular, who was often captured with her arms wrapped around the woman's neck. Ziva was never depicted in a similar embrace, instead standing apart from her mother and sister. There were no snapshots of Ziva and her mother sharing a moment of physical affection, though one particular snapshot made Gibbs pause.

In this photograph Gibbs recognized the Great Room upstairs, which he had once gotten a glimpse of a couple weeks earlier. It featured a wall of mirrors that Gibbs had initially found beautiful, and in this photographed resulted in a dramatic rendering of Ziva mid-dance. Gibbs' eyes followed the fluid lines of her limbs as she was captured mid-spin, her arms relaxed with practiced precision. In the mirrors he could her face, and noticed her eyes were closed, her features peaceful. The camera wielder was also captured in the mirrors, whom Gibbs identified as Tali, despite the camera hiding her identity. But in the corner there was another form—Mrs. David.

The young woman—to Gibbs' keen eyes, the mother was no older than 35 in this picture—was standing off to the side, watching her daughter move. The woman's gaze was warm, loving, and proud, but also wistful, and if Gibbs was not mistaken, full of regret. There was a resigned sadness to her striking green eyes that made Gibbs wonder if her distance from her eldest daughter in the other pictures were of her own volition. To think that the firm hand of Eli David did not extend to his wife as well would have been naïve of Gibbs, and it pained him to think that the Director of Mossad had forced his wife to withhold her affection from Ziva. Ziva had never once mentioned her mother to Gibbs, and he was at a loss to recall a cause of death. Ziva had been young, twelve years old, but Gibbs doubted she had been unaffected by the loss. At that point, Tali would have still been quite young, and would have still been reliant on a mother figure. Chava had filled that role to a point, he had learned, but Ziva had also stepped up to the plate, ensuring that her baby sister wanted for nothing, forcing her to fill a role that was much to mature for such a young girl.

The only instances in which Ziva truly looked her age were when she was accompanied by a dark, smiling individual. The first time he had seen this youth, Gibbs' mind had flashed back to a black and white surveillance video that had haunted his computer screens for months. The strong features of Ari Haswari were unmistakable, but as Gibbs continued to look at the photographs, he began to realize that the boy in these pictures was not the same man who had smirked at him from the morgue. Some of the shots were candid, and Gibbs could not deny the difference the years had made. This Ari was dark as well, burdened, but was not yet twisted with hate. He was laughing, smiling, and not out of malice or spite, but with honest, unrestrained happiness.

In one picture they straddled a gleaming black motorcycle, with Ziva's dark hair tousled from having just removed her helmet. Their clothes were dusty, but the identical gleams in their eyes were anything but dulled. Another picture had Ari wrapping strong arms around the shoulders of a young Ziva protectively from behind. His cheek pressed against hers as they grinned into the camera, and her hands rested familiarly on his forearms. In the next photograph their relationship as brother and sister was proven unquestionable: a pre-teenaged Ziva had latched onto Ari's back as they engaged in the age-old game of keep-away. She was reaching for the sheathed knife that her brother held at arm's length, just out of reach of Ziva's fingertips. Only her eyes were smiling this time, as the snapshot had captured her mid-word, no doubt in the process of delivering a fierce threat that Ari remained unfazed by, the youth's gaze mischievous.

A few pictures later, she got her revenge. This time they were surrounded by a dozen spectators behind them, and both were dressed in white gis complete with black belts. They wore no protective gear, their raised fists acting their only defense. The grins had vanished from their expressions, replaced by a narrow-minded focused as they focused on the task at hand. Ziva wore a mask of fierce determination as she delivered a precise spin hook that was inches away from colliding with Ari's head.

Gibbs discovered the outcome of the match minutes later when he found another photo dated the same day; this time their smiles were back as they stood side by side, Ziva with a ribbon and trophy and Ari with an arm around her neck as he ruffled her curls. Gibbs could see the side of Ari's face just beginning to swell, which was proof enough for Gibbs to determine that the kick from the previous photograph had indeed connected. And from the intensity of Ziva's expression before, she had not been holding back—a kick like would have been enough to knock out an opponent, no question. Later, Gibbs found the medal from the picture in the bundle that had been kept in the box, and Chava translated the Hebrew script engrave on it; Ziva had been thirteen when she won first place at the Tel Aviv District martial arts tournament—purportedly the highest ranked district in the nation.

There were sixteen medals in total, Chava told Gibbs that they were all first place, save for one. This odd medal out was a second place ribbon. Most were for various dance recitals Ziva had entered over the years, but a good number were for martial arts contests, the Tel Aviv District competition among them. The second place medal, however, was the one that surprised him the most—it was from a national dance competition, when she was fourteen. Benjamin boasted that she had been the youngest to compete, that she had gone up against dozens of dancers with decades of experience, and that she had lost only to a woman who had later become the prima ballerina of the most prestigious dance company in Israel. The butler's pride was unmistakable, and Gibbs found himself taken aback by Ziva's hidden talent.

Sometimes, Gibbs voiced his theories to Ziva as he pieced together the remnants of her childhood, but she always remained silent. He would ask her questions, as if his inquiries would break through her shell. He apologized to her too, for the fact that she had to lose her brother because him, that she lost her sister to senseless violence. He assured her that he would be there for her, to protect from any more loss, anymore sacrifice. He refused to acknowledge that she had nothing left to lose, nothing left of her soul to sacrifice. He refused to consider what would happen if his cover was compromised. He focused on the present, cherishing each moment he was near her. It didn't matter that she didn't see or hear him.

A stroke of her hair, a brush of their fingers, the rare peck on the cheek when he was absolutely certain no one could walk in and catch him in the act…

Those were the moments he treasured, for in those moments, he could pretend like things were exactly how they were supposed to be.


	8. Chapter 8

That Friday evening, Gibbs prepared to leave for the night; he had put all the mementos back in the box Chava had given him, which he then put on the mahogany desk that stood against the wall. He was just picking up his sport coat—which he rarely kept on during the day—and was heading for the door when a sound made him freeze. At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, but when he heard the words a second time, he knew he wasn't imagining it.

"Why are you here?"

The voice was soft and raspy from disuse, but all Gibbs could comprehend was that it was _hers_. He turned back towards her. She had not shifted her position, but her head had turned to the side—her cheek was now resting on her knees as she directed her question at him. Gibbs returned to her where she sat, slowly and carefully, as if any sudden movements would cause her to retreat back behind her walls. He reached out to touch her as he knelt to her level, but then thought better of it.

"Gibbs."

It was barely more than a whisper, but Gibbs latched hold of it as if it were the most beautiful music in the world, fighting to keep his emotions in check.

"Ziva—"

"Why are you _here_?" she asked again. Looking into her eyes, Gibbs saw life in them; they tracked his movements as he had come closer, and in their newfound depths he saw confusion, hurt, guilt, and despair. It pained Gibbs to see it, but at the same time, the change was the most welcome sight.

"Officer Bashan came to me," he said, his voice low. "He told me what happened. He asked for help, and provided a cover—"

As he spoke, Gibbs saw disappointment cloud her expression, and she looked away. Her features started to slacken, and when he saw her start to relax, he realized that he was seconds away from losing her again. She didn't care about his cover—she didn't ask _how_ he was there. When her eyes began to lose their focus once more, panic gripped him.

"Ziva! Don't—" He scooted closer to her, and reached out, framing her face with his hands. "Please, don't disappear again. Stay here, stay right here with me."

After a moment that seemed to last for hours, recognition returned to her gaze. Relief flooded him, but Gibbs wasted no time in celebrating before continuing.

"I'm sorry, Ziva, I am so sorry." Words he had been waiting to say for months began to pour from him, and he didn't even try to stop them. "I'm here because I love you. I shouldn't have let you go, not last spring and not at the Navy Yard. I'm here because I was an idiot and I'm not going to make the same mistake a third time. I am _not_ losing you again."

Silence fell, but Gibbs didn't move away or remove his hands from her cheeks. For several long moments, Ziva gazed at him, eyes wide, but thankfully they remained alert.

"You watched me go," she whispered finally. "You wanted me to leave. You do not trust me—"

"Ziva, no—" Gibbs tried to contradict her, but Ziva continued as she didn't, or couldn't, hear him.

"I lied about how the Damocles sank. I withheld information from your investigation. You think I am like my father. I—I am damaged goods." Her eyes filled with tears, and her voice became even more strained. "I am broken—"

The tears spilled over, and Ziva's voice gave out. Gibbs moved on instinct, wrapping her frail form in an enveloping hug. She struggled against his embrace, a small whimper escaping her as she tried to push him away. But Gibbs refused to budge, stubbornly providing the comfort he knew she needed as he murmured softly to her. Her energy waned quickly, and she sagged against him as she continued to weep. Gibbs felt her tears dampen the shoulder of his polo as she shook silently in his arms.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, holding her tight. "I'm so sorry." He said the words over and over, never once releasing his hold on her. Eventually her quiet sobs faded away, leaving an unnerving silence in their wake. Gibbs didn't let go until Ziva shifted away, settling back against the wall behind. Gibbs settled as well, but maintained contact with her by resting his hand on her knee. He was reluctant to let her go, as if she would drift away if he did release her. When she relaxed a little more, his hand shifted to grip hers—though her fingers remained lax, he took comfort from the fact that she was no longer pulling away.

"You are here."

Her words were so soft, Gibbs almost missed them entirely.

"What?"

"You are here."

"Yes." Gibbs mentally cursed himself. For all the tips that Ducky gave, the Marine had absolutely no idea how to proceed. He knew that the old Ziva would not appreciate any coddling or condescension on his part, but Gibbs quickly realized he no longer knew if this was the old Ziva or not.

"I did not think you were real. I waited for you to leave again, but you never did. You stayed."

"I stayed," Gibbs reassured her, attempting to keep the guilt and confusion from his voice. He could understand how she could expect him to disappear again—after all, it was his abandonment that had allowed of _this_ to transpire. But her weakened voice was wistful, and slightly detached. He worried that her grasp of reality was just as fragile as her voice.

"You should not be here," she continued breathlessly. "It is too dangerous. They will kill you."

"I'm not going anywhere, Ziva."

"It does not matter," she remarked. "You will go when they come. You always do."

"Ziva." Concern flooded Gibbs. "Who are _they_?" He tilted her chin so that he could look into her eyes once more.

"You know who they are," she answered. Her words were gaining coherence, but they were also losing what little sense they made. "At least, you probably know better than I." A smile crossed her tear-stained face. "It is not like they bother to introduce themselves." Panic welled within Gibbs' gut. He swallowed it down though, forcing himself to remain calm.

"Ziva," he said slowly, carefully, "do you know where you are?" Her eyes scanned the room, taking stock of her surroundings.

"We are in my bedroom," she said finally, "from when I was a child." She shifted her gaze back to his. "Welcome to Tel Aviv." The brief relief Gibbs felt at her recognition was struck down by her next words. "I wonder why this place…"

"What?"

"It has been years since I have been here," she elaborated. "It holds very little for me anymore." Her brow furrowed thoughtfully. "It is different from how I remember it." She sighed. "I must be tired." Suddenly, her gaze saddened. To Gibbs she seemed to be on the verge of tears once more.

"What's wrong" he asked, panic rising dangerously in his throat.

"Our last meeting," she whispered. "It was so real. I thought it was real."

"Last meeting?"

"I did not believe it at first. I kept waiting to wake up, but I did not." She paused. "It was so detailed… you had saved me, again. But this time Tony—" Suddenly she stopped, then scoffed. "What am I telling you for? You were there…" She fell silent for a moment, then continued. "Thank you," she whispered, "for letting me have that."

"Realization hit Gibbs like a kick in the gut. She was responsive, coherent… her voice gained strength with every word, but it did nothing to disguise the fact that she could no longer distinguish reality from hallucination.

Gibbs felt despair creep over him, all of the hopes of the past weeks crumbling. The anguish of her pain had passed, replaced by a calm acceptance of her situation. She saw him plain as day, which in and of itself was a relief, but it was eclipsed by the fact she thought him to be a figment of her imagination. He was her coping mechanism, an escape from the horrors of Somalia. Gibbs now understood her catatonic state and her reserved nature after her return. He had chalked it up to PTSD at the time, but now he knew it had gone much, much deeper.

She hadn't been sullen and withdrawn simply because she had forgotten what it had meant to be social. She hadn't not told him about the Damocles to hide it from them—some part of her thought they, _he_, already knew. She had been waiting for Saleem to storm back into her cell and wake her from her dream. She had simply been trapped in a state of semi-existence, unwilling to invest herself in a fantasy that she was sure would never last.

Gibbs was certain that if given enough time, she would have snapped out of it. She would have realized that no fantasy could ever be so elaborate. But the arrival of Ben-Gidon had preempted that, and her deportation had only reinforced her analysis of the situation. Perhaps, if she had been treated right once arriving in Tel Aviv, she still would have been able to grasp the truth of reality. But instead she had been locked up like an animal, a restriction that had most likely triggered a flashback, sending her back into Saleem's clutches. And now she believed _that_ to be real, and _this_ to be nothing more than a hallucination.

And yet, here she was, talking to him as if he had never let Ben-Gidon take her away. Suddenly, he wondered just how many hours she had spent talking to him during the summer, imagining his presence to give herself a respite from the pain and isolation. He wondered how many different ways she had envisioned Saleem dying, and her being rescued—if she had ever pictured her tormentor being sniped by Gibbs. He wondered how many times she had dreamed of receiving Abby's warm embrace, of finally confronting Dinozzo again about what had occurred between them after Rivkin's death.

About two weeks before Cryer's body had been found, Ziva had told Gibbs about how she had spoken to Tony in the men's room. Gibbs now knew that the interaction had been much more profound than he had initially realized—her reconciliation with her partner had had more to do with her own guilt than with his. Her acceptance of the events surrounding Michael's death and her capture had been a confession to herself, through the fabricated guise of one very special agent Dinozzo.

The concept made his head ache as he tried to wrap his mind around it. It was little wonder that Ziva was having difficulty remembering what was real. And it broke Gibbs' heart to realize it was easier for Ziva to believe she was still in Somalia than it was for her to believe she was safe.

Gibbs felt tears slide down his cheeks as he took in Ziva's peaceful, though exhausted, countenance. He hated his weakness, when his lover seemed strong despite her broken mind. With a gentle hand he reached out to caress her cheek, ignoring the tears that clouded both his vision and his voice. Ziva leaned into his touch, her eyes closing as she took comfort from the phantom brush of his fingers.

"Ziver," he said, choking the words out past the lump in his throat, "that was real. It was all real. You were home, and now you're in Israel. You're not in Somalia anymore." Ziva's eyes flew open, and her head straightened as she scrutinized him. For a moment, hope flared within him, but his heart fell again as she responded.

"You are not going to try to explain the mind-over-matter theory, are you?" she asked. "Because McGee tried to talk me through it the first time he came, and all it did was give me a headache. And the whole point of me seeing you all is so that I do not have to hurt anymore, yes?"

She gave him a gentle smirk, but it did not hide the shadows in her eyes that hinted at an ever-present pain. Her gaze was starkly unguarded, and it took Gibbs by surprise before he comprehended its cause—she had no reason to hide anything from a figment of her own imagination.

"No, Ziva. This," he waved towards the room around them, "this is real. The walls are bare because your father ordered everything to be removed, not because you were too tired to add details." Ziva's eyes lit up, giving Gibbs a surge of hope, but it quickly died again as he heard her reply.

"Well, I did tell you my father no longer wanted me around. I even told you I would not be surprised if he turned my bedroom into a workspace." She looked around her once more. "It is not quite an office, but it is not bad, considering the circumstances."

Gibbs realized that Ziva could very easily explain away every claim he tried to make in an effort to convince her she was not in Somalia. He decided to attempt a different track.

"Ziva," he said softly. She looked at him. "What is happening now? What are _they_ doing?"

Her eyes darkened.

"You do not need to hear it from me. You already know."

"Ziva…"

"No, Gibbs! I did not ask you to come, not this time—if you cannot let me rest in peace, then you can go." She glared at him. "Go on! Go!" Gibbs did not let go of her hand, but Ziva tore away from his touch. He shifted closer.

"Ziver…."

"Do not Ziver me here, Jethro. _I_ am in charge of own head! And I said no!"

Her outburst came swift and fierce, taking Gibbs by surprise. He froze, unprepared to encounter her sudden wrath. Her eyes burned, shooting him a smoldering gaze that turned her features into an impenetrable mask of stone. But as quickly as it came, her anger dissipated. He watched peace reclaim her once more, and a small knowing smile curled her lips.

"But you will either disappear or nag me until I do tell you," she stated. She let out a short, mirthless laugh. "But you only leave when I do not want you to, which means you will nag." She sighed. "Even here, after everything that is happening, I cannot fully let go…"

"Ziva…" Gibbs' voice was soft, tender. "Tell me."

Her gaze drifted to her lap, where her hands twisted each other nervously. Her breathing hitched slightly but she did not lose her focus.

"It is not so bad," she revealed softly. She looked towards the window. "It is afternoon, see?"

Gibbs stared at her in confusion.

"I don't—"

"You _know_ it is always worse at night," she said brusquely. But then her expression turned into one of fear. "Please, do not make me say it." Tears filled her eyes, which she swiped at angrily with the heel of her hand.

Gibbs' gut filled with lead as his mind tried to fill in the blanks. He had always suspected that Saleem, or his men, or both, had… Gibbs shook his head. He hadn't wanted to think about it in DC, and he certainly did not want to consider it now. But Ziva's returning anguish forced him to acknowledge it as a near-certainty. Gibbs had heard of using sex to obtain information—he and Ziva had both used the tactic on more than one occasion. It was not too far a stretch to imagine someone using rape to do the same thing with an unwilling prisoner.

No, Gibbs thought, not quite the same. Rape in and of itself would not be an effective way to draw out secrets, especially with hardened operatives like Ziva. No, it was part of the psychological torture—take away someone's control, pride, and hope through something so cruelly intimate as rape, and violate them often enough, they were sure to break. The only variation is _what_ gets broken. Saleem, if Gibbs was correct, obviously hoped it would break her spirit, her will. But in Ziva's case, it had broken her grip on reality. She'd had to cope somehow, and the safest way had been to simply detach—completely.

"Ziva, please—"

"I think he is using his belt now," she continued, sending a jolt of rage down Gibbs' spine. She grinned again, that same twisted, mirthless, pained smile she had given a few moments ago. "Someone should tell him that my father hits harder than him." And then she laughed, an ugly hollow sound that froze Gibbs' blood.

"Ziva, stop," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Please, you're safe, this is real."

"Jethro, you are sounding like a broken tape again."

"Record," he corrected automatically.

"And now you sound like Dinozzo. First McGee, now Tony… When are you going to sound like _you_ Gibbs?"

Gibbs regarded her for a long moment. He needed to be careful of how he proceeded. It was obvious he could not simply force the truth on her—apparently, she had already been lectured by 'McGee' about some philosophical horsecrap that had twisted her perception. No, he needed to help her come to the realization on her own. That would be the only way it would stick, and if he continued his current approach, it was possible that she would lose interest in him entirely and withdraw once more.

"And how am I supposed to sound?" he returned finally, settling back in an effort to look non-confrontational; he would have to play along, at least for the time being. He was rewarded with a twinkling gaze.

"Like that," she replied. "Relaxed, calm… smug. I am surprised you have not asked me about where we are."

"Anything special about this room, David?"

"Not in particular. I never spent much time here…" Her brow furrowed. "Or maybe that is what I am trying to tell myself. Maybe I should have spent more time here, like other children, instead of trying to please my father."

"You didn't dance to please your father," Gibbs observed. To his surprise, Ziva didn't even blink at his insight into her past. "That was all you."

"It was not _all_ me," she corrected. "I took ballet at his insistence. I did not want to do it originally." She grinned mischievously. "But I did continue it to get under his skin. To piss him off, as you Americans would say."

"Nah, it was more than that, Ziver," Gibbs drawled, allowing himself to be drawn into the casual nature of their conversation. "You wouldn't have entered that national dance competition if it was."

Ziva paused, before a nostalgic grin crossed her features.

"I had almost forgotten about that," she confessed. "It was a long time ago."

"Kinda hard to forget something like that, Ziva. Lost to a future prima ballerina. That's pretty impressive."

"Actually," she responded, "they offered it to me first."

"Offered what?"

"Prima ballerina."

Gibbs felt a jolt of surprise, his brow arching. Chava and Benjamin hadn't mentioned that.

"I never told anyone," she continued, as if she had read his thoughts. "But they offered me the spot in the company, private tutoring so that I would be able to travel with them. I would have gone all over the world to dance… I would not have had to be in Tel Aviv except for maybe one or two months out of the year. But even then I would have my own place, courtesy of the company." She paused thoughtfully. "I had a way out. I could have prevented all of this."

"Why didn't you take it?" Gibbs asked.

"Take what?"

"The way out."

"Oh. A sense of duty, I suppose."

"You had your eye on Mossad even then?"

"No," she responded, her tone reproachful. "Of course not." She sighed. "I knew I was headed in that direction, but I did not want it."

"Then why? Why not jump at the chance to get away?"

Ziva sighed.

"Tali was only twelve. Ari was in England by then, studying at Edinburgh. If I left, she would not have had any one there for her. I could not leave her all alone." She leaned her head back against the wall behind her. "I wanted to bring her with me, if I accepted, but they were already taking too big a risk with me as it was. The company had never taken on a dancer so young before. So I declined, and never told anyone about the offer."

"Why not?"

"Tali would have hated me if she knew. She always dreamed of getting away from all the violence—if she had found out I had the chance to do so but had stayed behind from her…" Ziva smiled as her voice trailed off. "For a pacifist she had an impressive temper."

"Do you wish you _had _gone?"

Ziva paused before answering Gibbs' query.

"Sometimes," she said bluntly. "I try not to think about that. But sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I did join the company. Maybe Ari and his mother would have been watching me perform that day the Gaza strip was bombed. Maybe on the day the jihadist targeted the café, the company was in town, and Tali would have been visiting me at the theater. Maybe I would be in Russia right now, instead of in the desert." She then turned her head to look at Gibbs, who took a moment to consider her words.

"Would you have accepted, if you had known then what you know now?"

"No." Her answer came swift and sure. "I would have made the exact same choice."

"Why?"

"Because I wonder what might have happened if I _had_ accepted."

Gibbs felt confusion flood him once more. Was she losing coherence again? He kept his expression still, but she still seemed to sense his perplexion.

"Maybe Tali would not have died at the café, but if I had accepted the position as prima ballerina, I would not have been there when Hamas tried to abduct her a month after her fourteenth birthday. If I had not been there to protect her that day, she would have been killed within hours. And maybe I would not have killed Ari, but maybe he would have been discovered as a mole by his Hamas cell… It would have been _his_ head sent overnight express. And maybe I would not be in Somalia right now, but then maybe someone would have discovered who I was, who my father was, and decided to make an example of me. And maybe some of my fellow dancers would have been caught in the crossfire." She shrugged.

"Or maybe I would have torn a ligament in my ankle, or the cartilage in my knee within months of joining the company. And I would now be limping around Tel Aviv as a schoolteacher or librarian. There is no way to know what would have happened, or if anything would have been better." She smirked. "I do know one thing though."

"Yeah?"

"I would not have met you." Gibbs blinked, taken slightly aback by her revelation. He hadn't considered that possibility, and the concept left him cold. She turned away once more, her features again thoughtful. "I guess I have come to accept the past. And the present too."

"You're okay with being in Somalia?"

"You mean tortured," she said, correctly reading the thoughts behind his question. "And no. No one would be, Jethro—that is the whole point of torture. But I know that I would not have changed anything that led to my being here. And I know that it will come to an end, one way or another." He arched an eyebrow, as if silently daring her to elaborate. She did.

"Either I will be rescued, or Saleem will kill me." She looked at him. "And if I had money, I would put it on the second option."

"We're closer than you think, Ziver." Gibbs' voice was as heavy as his heart felt. He did not want to hear her talk this way, but knew that he had to go along with it, if he wanted to help her. Tony had told him of how she had acted on the day of her rescue, and Gibbs quickly realized that he was now experiencing her uncharacteristic behavior firsthand.

_Get over yourself_, Tony had said.

_I have_.

The words echoed in his head and Gibbs returned his attention to Ziva, who was gazing at him bemusedly.

"What?" he asked.

"You always say that," she said. When his eyebrow arched inquisitively, she elaborated. "That you are close to finding me. But to be fair, it is not just you. Abby, Ducky, McGee, even Tony sometimes—you all tell me that you are 'close'. But you have been saying it for months now, and I am still here."

Gibbs found himself at a loss, unable to respond to her honesty. He decided to not press the matter further when he noticed that her exhaustion beginning to overcome her. Her eyes were beginning to blink heavily, only to jerk open again each they closed. Though Gibbs was apprehensive of potentially losing her as she slept, he knew she needed to rest—perhaps now she would even get a full night's sleep.

He shifted closer to her, running a hand over her hair affectionately. Her eyes remained closed for a moment before they blinked heavily as she looked up at him.

"Hey," he said softly. She _hmmm_ed back at him in response. Gibbs draped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him. "Get some sleep," he urged quietly. She murmured a protest, and though her words were unintelligible, he could sense her hesitation. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?" Her voice was small, and in her weakened state, Gibbs could hear the girl behind the woman, fearful of being alone.

"I promise."

The honesty of his vow lit a determined fire in his gut—he would not be leaving her side this evening, that much was certain. Ziva seemed to sense his intentions, as within moments her breathing had evened out and her body relaxed against him.

Gibbs remained motionless for several minutes, taking the time to appreciate the situation. It was the first time since his arrival in Israel that he had able to see her sleep. She had always slept long after he left for the day, if she slept at all. Her position against him prevented Gibbs from seeing her face, but he could tell that the tension had left her, leaving her limbs slack with utter exhaustion.

After a few minutes he shifted, getting his leg under him as he gathered her in his arms. He then stood, carrying her limp form to the bed. He hesitated for a moment upon getting to his feet, looking for signs that he had woken her. But Ziva remained dead to the world, not even stirring until Gibbs gently deposited her on the plush mattress. He didn't bother with turning down the duvet, instead simply laying her directly on top of the covers.

She turned slightly onto her side, curling up a little as Gibbs took the blanket resting at the foot of the bed and draped it carefully over her thin frame. He gently tucked her in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He now had a chance to take a long look at her. Her expression was peaceful, more peaceful than he had seen her since Michael Rivkin showed up in DC. Gibbs pulled a chair closer to the bedside and settled in for a long wait. At least, he hoped it would be long—she needed the rest.

It also gave him a chance to finally get an unobstructed view of her features. Ziva sighed as Gibbs brushed away the hair that had fallen into her face. He was immediately struck by how peaceful she appeared. It was not the first time he had seen her sleeping, not by a long shot, but in all of the nights they had shared a bed, Ziva always seemed to sleep with one eye open. There was always an underlying tension that gripped her as she slept, and she was always ready to snap awake at a moment's notice. And she _always_ kept her hand gripped around the butt of her gun.

But her exhaustion prevented all of that from being present now. She had effectively passed out, and that realization worried Gibbs. She had had limited physical activity since he had been there, which meant that her exhaustion stemmed from whatever had kept her trapped within her own mind. If their conversation had been any indication, she had been back in the desert—meaning that for all intents and purposes, she had been tortured for the past four months.

She may not believe it yet, but she was safe, freed from Saleem. That faceless bastard was dead, unable to get his hands on her again. And though it pained Gibbs to see her trapped in what she thought was a hallucination, he came to the realization that she was not truly broken. She was still strong. Thinking back to their conversation, Gibbs was able to see that even the parts that still made no sense to him were not quite as jumbled as they seemed. In fact, if Gibbs shifted his perception to see it as Ziva had, it made perfect sense.

She saw him as an extension of her own mind, an embodiment of the loss she felt and the comfort she craved. And as such, the parts that he could not make sense of, she expected him to know of what she referred to. They shared an existence, in her eyes, and it was _that_ bond he needed to exploit in order to bring her back into reality. He would have to confront her with something she could not explain away, something that she could deny. But he had to ensure that he tread softly; he could not risk frightening her or angering her, or else she could disappear once more behind her defenses. And if that happened, there was no guarantee that she would come back to him a second time.

But there would be time to work out a plan of action later, Gibbs decided. Right now, her needs were simple. She needed support, acceptance, and comfort. She needed to know that she was still loved, still wanted. And Gibbs was willing to give her all that and more.

Watching her sleep, Gibbs too felt exhausted. He felt as though he had run through the whole spectrum of emotions in the space of only an hour. Despair, hurt, guilt, regret, hope, elation… all of it had assaulted his consciousness, and he was now finally feeling their physical impact. He felt as he had in the days following the death of his family, when he had often passed out each night after being unable to stem the flow of tears that had poured continuously from his eyes. And though he had not shed nearly as many tears, he now felt sleep creeping up on him.

Looking once more at Ziva, Gibbs decided that she would be asleep for at least several hours. Which meant that he had that long to replenish his energy, which he was certain he would need in the coming morning. He had his work cut out for him, but that knowledge did little to dampen the happiness that accompanied his growing fatigue. Ziva had trusted him, and ultimately herself, enough to make the first step towards her recovery.

And Gibbs would be there to help her the rest of the way.


	9. Chapter 9

As the room grew dark in the growing night, Gibbs sat in the chair beside the bed, ever vigilant of his sleeping ward. The house was silent around him, but he was not naïve enough to believe that the Mossad detail had left the grounds. No, they were still there in the shadows, constantly aware of every sound, every movement made within a six hundred yard radius. Gibbs pushed them from his mind, determined to remain focused on what was important. They were irrelevant. As long as he was careful to maintain his cover, they posed no threat.

Instead he focused on the sleeping woman before him, who was the reason he was in Israel, in the childhood home of the man he had once called his greatest enemy. But it was her home too—that was what he needed to remember. However… would that be a curse or boon? He couldn't say. Chava had told him of both good times that had taken place here, but it was also filled with painful memories. Which would Ziva cling to, even if she could accept that she was no longer in Somalia?

His question went unanswered, the silence of the night broken only by the sound of Ziva's deep breaths. He kept time, matching her breath for breath. It was a comfort, a reminder that she wasn't as lifeless as her stillness implied. She hadn't shifted position at all since he had moved her to the bed, a testament to her exhaustion. Gibbs was grateful, knowing that every quiet moment was one in which she was not plagued by nightmares. But the haunting memories were still a concern, as the night was far from over, but each additional moment of peaceful slumber was a blessing.

He thought he had become accustomed to her painfully nutrient-deprived form, but seeing her beneath the blanket, he realized that he was not. She was dwarfed by the large bed, shrunken by malnutrition and weakened from confinement. It was almost comical, how he had been so outraged by how she had appeared after her rescue, so wan and so thin. But compared to how she was now, she had been the picture of health.

Even after months in the desert, she hadn't been this physically devastated. _This_ was more than simple deprivation—it was a visible symptom of the slow death of her spirit. In the desert, she had fought for survival, no matter what she had told Tony about accepting death. But she had given up since returning to Israel, and had withered away in her gilded prison until her body was starved and her mind fractured. Both were in such a desperate state of disrepair, Gibbs wasn't sure which he should focus on first.

He doubted she herself would care about how unhealthy she was while was still having difficulty distinguishing reality from memory. At the same time, it would be hard to work on helping her psychologically while she looked like she could pass out at any moment.

Which was more important? And who was he to decide? He had never put much stock in psychology—he much preferred the direct method of approaching a problem head-on when it presented itself. The head-shrink mumbo jumbo was Ducky's scene, not his. But even Gibbs knew that his preferred methods wouldn't work this. It would take more than a smack to the head to get her to snap out of… what were they? Were they still memories if she was trapped in them? Or were they delusions? Permanent hallucinations... Whatever they were, he doubted there would be any _snapping_ out of anything.

It was possible, even probable, that it would be a slow and steady process to getting Ziva back to herself. There would be no singular moment when she'd suddenly wake up and be herself again. Gibbs could foresee a lifetime of constant reassurance and persuasion to convince her of the truth.

Even if—no, _when_, Gibbs corrected himself, _when_ she returned to her former self, when he managed to get her back to America, he suspected she would always have to fight to keep herself grounded in reality. After having convinced herself that her rescue from the desert was a dream… it seemed nothing could surprise her. Nothing in the future would be safe from the possibility of being dismissed in the same manner—as a figment of her imagination.

But Gibbs didn't care. He didn't care how much infinite patience would be needed, the support she would need, perhaps for the rest of her life. He would do his best to help her here, in Israel, but if that failed, he would get her the help she needed back in the states. He grinned—he bet a frantic sprint from the David family estate would convince her well enough that her existence wasn't a damn dream.

Suddenly, Gibbs' capacity for all conscious thought ceased in the space of a moment, when an ear-splitting scream filled the room with explosive force. Ziva began to thrash on the bed, fighting against the twisting, tangled blanket covering her. Gibbs surged from his chair, dodging her flailing limbs to try to wake her from her terror. Her too-thin fingers arched into claws, and the nails of her right hand managed to rake his shoulder before he managed to touch her.

He pulled her close, both to avoid her struggles and to comfort her. He spoke to her in dulcet tones, murmuring reassurances, but his touch only riled her more. It gave her something tangible to fight against, and her struggles doubled, growing more frantic. But her screaming did cease, leaving her breathless and whimpering. Gibbs saw her lips moving, forming silent words that Gibbs struggled to read. When her voice returned a moment later, giving her nightmares sound, Gibbs froze.

"No… no please. Not again," she pleaded. "No more, please!" Gibbs drew away, but her throes continued, and she continued to beg. She yelped fearfully. "No! No, not tonight. Please! No… No. No! No! NO!"

"Ziva!" Gibbs shouted, the sound of her climaxing terror enough to finally spur him into action. He sat beside her on the bed, but refrained from touching her, lest he panic her more. He had heard that it was better to let a person continue through with the nightmare, to see it resolved, but when Ziva began to scratch at her wrists and her neck, he knew that wasn't an option. She seemed to clawing at invisible hands who tried to restrain her, and she didn't seem to feel it when her nails drew blood. Gibbs knew he had to step in, and fast. "ZIVA, WAKE UP!"

Suddenly without warning, she shot upright, her eyes flying wide open. Brown orbs rolled frantically in their sockets as soon as she saw him. There was no spark of recognition—only stark, unadulterated fear. He instinctively moved to comfort her, but instantly realized it to be a bad idea when she began to struggle against both him and the entangled blanket as she fought to scuttle away from him in her panic.

Gibbs continued to speak to her, his voice low and unthreatening as he repeated his desire to keep her safe, hoping that it would help her remind her of whom he was. For several long moments, it seemed as though he had lost her once more to her memories, but then her eyes finally met his.

She froze, her limbs tense and trembling as her eyes locked with his. She seemed to forget to breathe for a long moment, her entire body going absolutely still. Finally, she jerked, a half-gasp half-sob escaping her lips as her hands gripped his fingers tightly. Tears flooded her eyes and then escaped to pour down her cheeks. Her gaze darted around the room, finally seeming to realize her surroundings. Gibbs remained motionless, giving her a moment to orientate herself.

"Jethro?"

Her voice was small, timid and scared. Her grip didn't slacken, remaining tightly clamped around his fingers. She was breathing heavily, as if still trying to catch her breath. She sighed, clearing her throat in the same breath in an attempt to gather herself. "I need to work on my timing," she said as drily as she could manage, her voice thick.

"You had a nightmare," Gibbs returned. She looked at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes. She shifted her position, releasing his fingers to better maneuver herself on the bed. Gibbs' heart fell, but whether it was due to the loss of contact or the realization she still did not consider him real, he wasn't sure. "This isn't a dream," he said, unable to keep himself from trying to convince her once more. When Ziva didn't respond, he continued. "This is your bedroom."

"I noticed," she said bluntly. "It is the same room as last time."

"It's going to be the same for a while," he informed her. "Until I can get you out of here."

"Stop trying to convince me you are on the way," Ziva said sharply, shoving the blanket away, freeing her legs from its confines. "I know you are not. How could you be? I did not tell you of my mission, and by now my father has declared me dead. Most likely I went down on the Damocles." She sighed. "With Chalev and Avi." Gibbs glanced at her sharply. She returned it. "Do not give me that look. He has been here too, and you know it."

"Who?"

"Chalev."

"He's been here?"

"Not here," she waved towards the room with a roll of her eyes. "You know what I mean. You were there."

"I was?"

Ziva grinned tiredly. "Yes. One of the most entertaining visits I ever had." At this, even Gibbs could not keep a smile from his lips.

"Oh, really?" he drawled. Her tone was returning to one that was familiar, and Gibbs found it contagious.

"Mmhmm." Her head leaned back to rest against the wall. "For Marines, you two were not very friendly... More likely to bite each other's head off than even shake hands."

"Bastard had it coming."

Gibbs found the sentiment rang true, more than he had expected it to. He honestly hoped Hallucination-Gibbs had ripped the Cryer a new one. He knew from what the Damocles case had told him about what had happened on the freighter that Chalev—Cryer—had been the catalyst of the events that had led to Ziva attempting to complete the mission on her own. If he had not been making clandestine calls via sat-phone, the crew would not have needed eliminating. And then the gunfight would not have followed, and her team would have been able to follow Ziva on to Saleem.

And if none of that had happened—well, neither of them would be in Israel. They would be curled up in front of a fire in his living room, maybe with Jackson visiting for the holidays. She wouldn't be fighting both nightmares and reality, and he wouldn't be a mess of intermittent guilt and hope. Gibbs looked at her with a smile… and was rewarded when she returned it with one of her own.

But before either one of them could say anything more, the bedroom door slammed open, startling them both. But while Gibbs only whipped his head towards the explosion of sound, Ziva jumped violently, curling in on herself and bringing her hands up to shield her head. Gibbs instinctively moved to shield her, cradling her in his arms, disregarding their precarious situation in favor of glaring at their uninvited guest. He was mildly surprised to discover that it was not Officer Reuben as he had suspected it would be, but Odavia.

"Doctor Ross!" The young officer said brusquely, his gun at the ready. His eyes darted around the room, scanning for any hidden threat with practiced ease. When nothing presented itself, the firearm lowered and his attention shifted to the two forms on the bed. "What happened? There was screaming."

"She was having a damn nightmare, _Officer_," Gibbs growled, unable to contain his irritation. "Now go. You're scaring her." Who would have thought he'd ever say that in this lifetime? Ziva, scared? It left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Oh." The officer's tone was serious, but not wholly unapologetic. "I apologize for the intrusion—" A soft voice interrupted him.

"What—?"

Gibbs' gaze slowly shifted to where Ziva was curled into him. His carefully schooled expression betrayed any of the shock he felt. Instead of the near panic he would have expected, her voice, shaky though it was, held only a timid confusion that made Gibbs' heart skip a beat.

"Jethro… who is that? I--" Her brow furrowed in confusion. "I did not know him. I do not know who he is."

"His name is Odavia." Gibbs' own voice was careful. He sensed the young officer preparing to give more information, but a wave of Gibbs' hand silenced him.

"Odavia…" She said the name slowly, allowing it to roll off her tongue. It didn't seem to spark any memories. "But why is he _here_?"

"He's here to protect you." It wasn't the whole truth, but he wasn't about to risk losing her again by telling her Odavia doubled as a prison warden.

"I do not know him," she repeated. "Why is he here?" Gibbs didn't answer this time, instead holding his breath as he hoped beyond hope she might figure it out on her own. Could he be so lucky? Hadn't he just convinced himself that there wouldn't be a singular moment? Yesterday he had contemplated the possibility of finding something she couldn't explain, something to shake her up… Could it really be so simple? Could the young, empathetic Odavia be the key?

"Why would… What does it mean?" Ziva continued to murmur to herself, her hands still resting against her temples. "It makes no sense. I do not understand. He is not… What could it…"

Her voice trailed off, but Gibbs saw the wheels in her head continue to turn. Her eyes darted between Gibbs, Odavia, and the rest of the room, as if searching for some glitch or discrepancy. After a long moment, her gaze settled on Gibbs. Her brown eyes were wide as they locked onto him, and her fingers brushed against his arm, gently creeping up the length of his arm, silently searching for answers.

Suddenly, she stiffened, and her fingers clamped down on his arm. With a heavy blink, something in her eyes shifted. Gibbs watched her look around the room again, as if truly seeing it for the first time. Slowly her lips began to move, this time in a quiet Hebrew that Gibbs couldn't translate. But then she stared at him once more, in timid disbelief.

"You… You were telling the truth." There was no question in her voice. She shifted against him, her grip loosening to travel first his arm, then his shoulder. Her fingers gently prodded him, as if testing his solidity. Gibbs looked at her with bated breath, waiting for her to say the words they both needed to hear.

"You are real."

As soon as the words were uttered, Gibbs' control over his threatening grin broke, and he was soon beaming at her unabashedly.

"You are real," she repeated, her eyes unfocused slightly as she finally fully comprehended the realization. But it was only for a moment, and then her attention returned to him. "I am sa—" Her voice gave out. Gibbs could see the tears flooding her eyes. "Am I--? Jethro…"

Her voice was growing increasingly tremulous as she fought to remain calm. But Gibbs knew what she wanted to know, and he was more than willing to oblige her. He returned her gaze with a firm one of his own.

"You are safe," he assured her.

A tear leaked out the corner of her eye and trailed its way down her cheek. Gibbs smoothly reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb gently sweeping away the offending moisture. Ziva leaned into the touch, her eyes closing in tentative contentment and sending another stream of tears coursing towards Gibbs' fingers. A small sob escaped her, and her fingers cinched tightly around his wrists.

Gibbs carefully wrapped his arms around her, and even the reminder of her too-thin frame took backseat to the thrill of feeling her return the embrace. She whispered his name into his shoulder, as Gibbs whispered his earlier words over and over. "_You're safe_."

She shook in his arms, and he felt his shirt grow damp once more as she cried. He held her close, rubbing gently circles against her back. He tried not to think about the sensation of her vertebrae and shoulder blades protruding prominently through the fabric of her shirt. He refused to count the number of ribs he could count as he ran his fingers over her back, or notice how his arms reached farther around her than they did the last time he had embraced her. Instead he simply held her, and allowed her to release her anguish as she pressed into him.

He held her, for hours it seemed, but for all Gibbs was concerned, time didn't exist. He held her as she cried against him, and more than one tear traced down his own cheeks. He held her until she fell asleep, drained once more by her… awakening. Even then he continued to hold her, as if subconsciously he hoped the contact would ward off any of the nightmares that threatened to suck her back into the world of terror she had finally managed to leave behind.

It was only when the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon that he realized how long they had sat there on the bed. From his position, he could watch the light grow, illuminating the scenery visible through the wall of windows along the east wall. The rolling hills and leafy trees were slowly bathed in a warm glow that grew stronger with each passing second.

He held her as the room filled with the gentle pinks and oranges capturing each and every ray of light. The sunrise chased off the dark of the night, and filled Gibbs with the hope that, not twenty four hours ago, had begun to wane. Warmth swelled within him as he gazed protectively at the woman dozing lightly in his arms.

Her breathing was deep and smooth, calm and content despite her exhaustion. It lulled him into his own state of semi-consciousness with its steady rhythm. As he lingered in that realm halfway between sleep and waking, he was able to believe they were not in an ostentatious house on the edge of the desert. For a moment they were at home, their home, in their bed. They were about to get up to go out for an early morning run, which would most likely turn into a race before they were finished.

But when Ziva sighed against him, shifting just the slightest bit, the moment ended, and he was back in Israel. Finally, his fatigue took over, pulling him down into a realm of dreamless sleep. As the sun continued to climb, they slept, blissfully oblivious to the rest of the world.

It would be another six hours before Gibbs realized that Officer Odavia had vanished silently from the room without his notice, and that the officer had been present to hear Ziva call Gibbs by his true name—not his cover.

It would be six hours before the peace that had settled over Gibbs would be replaced by a familiar shroud of dread when he finally realized his cover had been blown.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Here's a new update! I realized in writing this chapter that I kinda backed myself into a corner earlier, and this is kinda to helpme out of it. But thing's are going a little more smoothly now, and more updates should be coming. So, Betrayal's off summer hiatus, Apoc's off summer hiatus, Something More is waiting for the show to start again... I think I'm doing pretty decent considering all that's happened this summer!

ENJOY!

* * *

When Gibbs woke up the next morning, his body was heavy with contentment. The warmth he felt in his chest was only partially a result of the frail woman leaning against him, just as peaceful as he had last seen her the night before. For a long moment he simply gazed at her lax features, taking in her unmoving lids—no dreams—and the gentle curve of her lips, which were blessedly still as well. He didn't think he could handle a repeat of yesterday morning, of the screaming and pleas for mercy.

But the morning was quiet and peaceful, and Gibbs remained where he was. He watched the colors of the Israeli dawn play on the wall opposite him, dancing through the window glass behind him. He had realized months ago that dawns here were different from the ones in America. The colors seemed sharper, more vibrant than the colors DC's skies. And they seemed to last longer too, lingering as if for the benefits of their viewers.

It almost made him come to an understanding about Ziva. If he hadn't known what he did about her family, about how she'd been recruited into—bred for—Mossad, watching the sun rise in Israel made him understand her desire to protect her nation.

The place was beautiful, what he'd seen of it anyway, and it to have been born and raised there… it would have been easy to sacrifice everything for it. He would do the same for Stillwater in a heartbeat. In fact, he already had in joining the Corps, in an obscure way he hadn't realized at the time of his commitment.

By becoming a Marine he'd given his youth and offered his life in service of his country, and he'd lost his family in doing so. He'd re-enlisted, but it wasn't until he got out that he'd had the maturity to realize that he fought to protect. It was more than _getting some_, more than the honor-courage-commitment.

It was the certainty that he was doing something to ensure that the violence he saw as a sniper would never occur on American soil, that he would never see his Stillwater ravaged the same way.

And just like Ziva, he'd lost, and he'd sacrificed. He now knew that Ziva at least had a semblance of a happy childhood. There may have been some abuse at the hands of her father, but she'd loved and been loved by her brother and sister, and had been a near prodigy with dance and martial arts. But Gibbs had had that childhood _and_ ten years with a family of his own. Ten of the happiest years of his life—years that Ziva never had. She didn't have such fresh memories to fall back on when the going got tough.

No, she'd relied on the experiences she'd shared with the team, a team she'd left on less than friendly terms. But somehow it'd been enough, and now Gibbs had the chance to help her heal. So long as he could keep her grounded, as long as he could somehow get her back to the States, where she could get some _real_ psychological help. Because _he_ wasn't it—he didn't even know where to start.

All he could do was keep her in the realm of reality, to not allow her to slip back into hallucination. And even that was a tall order, with so many ears and eyes—

Gibbs froze, stiffening where he lay.

There had been ears and eyes last night. There had been ears and eyes when Ziva had awoken from her confusion, and had finally recognized him as who and what he was. There had been ears and eyes when she had given voice to his true identity.

Odavia.

Panic gripped him, and Ziva seemed to sense his sudden distress. She shifted next to him, rousing slowly in the early morning light. It took her long enough to open her eyes that Gibbs had time to school his features, ease his expression so that she wouldn't be able to see his concern. She didn't need that added worry.

So when brown eyes finally did look up at him, all they found was a gentle smile that allowed her to maintain her peaceful awareness. But she seemed slightly apprehensive nonetheless.

"Jethro?"

Her voice was tiny, fragile, and questioning.

"Yeah," he answered warmly. "It's me. You're in Israel, at home."

Groggily, she shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Not home…"

"Ziver…"

"I think I was," she continued, almost thoughtfully. "I think I was home. But something happened. They took me away…" She looked at him in question. "Was that real? Was I really at NCIS?"

Gibbs nodded. "Yes," came his reply. "For a short while."

"I do not understand… Why am I here?" Confusion tinged her voice. "Why would I come back to Israel? I would not have, not after…" Her words trailed off, and she shuddered involuntarily. "I do not understand."

And with a tone that tried to hide his guilt and self-reproach, Gibbs explained everything that had followed from her rescue. Everything from his doubt in her, to her desire to leave Mossad and join NCIS, right down to his inability to keep her at home in the States when Ben-Gidon came to burn her. And when he finished, she was quiet as she processed everything. Finally, she nodded.

"I think I remember…" she said, her voice slightly stronger, though she shook her head as if to clear it. "But I am not sure, everything feels fuzzy…"

"It's okay," he told her. "That's okay." He smiled. "It's okay to be confused. I would be too."

Silence fell for a few, almost comfortable minutes—Ziva seemed relaxed enough, but he could not shake the feeling of unease that gripped him by the pit of his stomach. But he swallowed it back as best he could, determined to keep her unaware as long as he possibly could.

This was the calmest she had been, the most alert, and he wanted to prolong it, because as much as he hated it, he could not shake the feeling that her lucidity would not last. The most he could hope for was that it was reduced to intermittent periods, periods that might grow longer and closer together as time passed.

But even that was dependent on his ability to keep them both out of harm's way—a task that now seemed beyond the realm of possibility.

Gibbs' only hope was to appeal to Officer Odavia's admiration of Ziva, and his naïveté as a young agent to stay his tongue. And that would only be any good if the younger man had not already gone to his superiors with the wealth of information he now possessed. No doubt even the newest of officers knew Gibbs' name, if not his face. He would know Gibbs as the man who had killed Ari Haswari—or to the David's inner circle, the man who had tried to take the fall for the traitor's death.

But eventually, Gibbs' worries were interrupted by Ziva sitting upright on the bed next to him. For a moment she seemed unsteady, but then she shook her head once, and proceeded to climb off the bed.

"What's wrong?" he asked quickly as she found her feet.

"I need to shower," she said softly. "I feel sandy… and dirty…"

Gibbs nodded in understanding. "Go," he said firmly. "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head no, but there was a moment of hesitation that told him otherwise. And a glimpse into her eyes told him that she knew he could see the truth. In a move that was distinctly Ziva, her brown eyes gave a slight roll of exasperation. The sight almost made Gibbs laugh, but his relief forced him into a small grin instead.

"I'll see if Chava still has something leftover from breakfast," he told her. "It's late, but—"

"Chava?"

Ziva's voice cut through his voice like a razor. Its edge made Gibbs pause warily.

"The housekeeper…"

"She is still alive?"

Gibbs nodded. "So's Benjamin. They've been concerned about you. If you want to see them—"

"No." Again, Ziva cut through his offer like a scythe.

"No?"

"No," came the sharp reiteration. "I do not wish to see them. I do not want to see either of them."

She remained where she was for a moment, as though waiting for him to protest. But when he didn't, she simply turned from him, and without another word she disappeared into the depths of the bathroom.

He waited until he heard the shower running—a result more of habit than of true desire, he was sure—before he ventured out of the bedroom. Almost as soon as Ziva had vanished from sight his earlier apprehension returned, but when he stepped out into the hall, it compounded into near panic.

For there, standing not ten feet from the doorway, was none other than Officer Odavia.

Gibbs almost paused in surprise, but forced himself to close the door behind him with a certain sense of finality. As Odavia looked up to meet his gaze, Gibbs took quick inventory of the weapons he carried on his person—two knives—and his exits—all three of which were through Odavia and down the stairs, unless he utilized the wall of windows as a last resort—as he returned to the skills he'd learned as a young NCIS agent. But he knew his best shot, should Odavia prove unaccommodating, would be to eliminate the young officer with a quiet twist to the neck, and then somehow spirit Ziva away from the estate.

It was in that moment that Gibbs realized that he had wasted the time Ziva's condition had provided him. The months he had spent talking to her, and to the staff, learning about her past… it had all been a distraction. What he should have focused on was securing safe passage for himself and Ziva back to America. He shouldn't have waited for her to wake from her stupor. He should have worked to free her from this childhood prison the moment he got here.

And now they may both pay for his oversight.

Warily, Gibbs approached Odavia, but came to a stop well beyond the officer's reach. In an instant, Gibbs knew what the officer had lingered for, by the look in his eye, and Gibbs decided to not play games.

"Have you told the others yet?"

The younger man regarded him with a long look before responding. "No," came the simple reply. "Not about Officer David's improved condition nor your true identity."

"What do you want?"

"I wish only happiness for Officer David," the officer declared bluntly. "She deserves that much, after all that she has suffered. There is nothing right about what has occurred in this house since she has come here, and now the least I can do is look the other way in this matter. I have seen your concern for Officer David, and it is not my place to deprive her of such care. You are good for her, especially given her recent improvement."

The younger man squared his shoulder, facing Gibbs head on.

"I am at your service, _Doctor Ross_," Officer Odavia stated, emphasizing the use of Gibbs' false identity. "I will do what I can to ensure that you retain your position here within the David household for as long as possible."

The words were simple, but the weight behind them was undeniable. He might be green as far as Mossad officers went, but he knew exactly what he was doing, and Gibbs could see that. He meant exactly what he was pledging, even though it could mean his job, or his life, should his role in the conspiracy to help Ziva be discovered.

But Gibbs knew he could not afforest to turn down the offer of help. He nodded once, and a fraction of the weight on his shoulders disappeared. It was no longer a burden he had to bear alone.

It was a risk to trust Odavia—Gibbs knew that. But there was something in the younger man's tone, or perhaps in the way he had first spoken in defense of Ziva when Gibbs had first come to the estate, that made it impossible for Gibbs to doubt his honesty.

He gave a heavy sigh.

"I could help her better if she was back in the States," he said carefully. "We have better facilities there." He might trust Odavia, but he did not trust whatever listening devices may have planted in the hallway.

Odavia's eyes darkened, though his features remained soft. "I am afraid my expertise does not include being a travel agent. And I have strict orders to ensure Officer David remains on the property."

The message was clear—Ziva's presence was closely monitored, if not her activities as well. The officers were not guards so much as they were wardens.

Gibbs had already discerned as much for himself. He nodded.

"I'll be spending the next few days here, in case she relapses, but if she doesn't I'll be expected to go home in the evenings, and then I can make some calls." He gave Odavia a pointed look. "Get in touch with some of my colleagues in America, get their input on how to proceed with her treatment."

The officer's expression remained stoic, but Gibbs knew he got the message loud and clear.

"That seems practical, Dr. Ross."

"But I'll need someone here with Ziva, someone she—and I—can trust," Gibbs continued. "She'll need someone to socialize with, keep her connected. I don't want her to shut herself off again."

"I would be honored to fill the role when the time comes," came the quick, almost eager response. This time, there was no secrecy to the younger man's voice. Gibbs' suspicions were confirmed—a full blown case of hero worship.

But Gibbs bit back his grin and only nodded.

"Once she's had a chance to adjust, I'll introduce the two of you. Do not—and don't let anyone else—approach before that. We'll let her get used to you before we throw you into the lion's den."

Odavia's turn to nod. "Very well. In the meantime, I will direct Chava to arrange a breakfast tray for the both of you."

Gibbs nodded in approval. The conversation finished, both men turned away.

But before Odavia could disappear around the corner, Gibbs turned back with a final thought.

"But don't—"

"Tell Chava about Ziva's improvement," Odavia finished with a grin. He looked back at Gibbs with sparkling, mirthful eyes. "Yes, I had come to the same conclusion myself. If I did tell Chava, neither hell nor high water would keep that woman from storming the bedroom." His grin grew. "And I do not think _anyone _would be able to weather such an assault at this hour."

And with that, the young officer was gone, his footsteps silent on the carpeted floor. Gibbs watched him go, staring after him for a moment as he wondered what exactly made the idealistic man tic.

He didn't fit the bill for Mossad. He wasn't like Ziva. He was physically strong, yes, but the hard cynicism that came from seeing too much had not yet settled in his eyes. Perhaps he was well adjusted, or maybe it really was because this was possibly his very first assignment. Either way, it didn't really matter, because Gibbs recognized the flash of something deeper in the man, something that suggested there was more going on within him that Gibbs could see.

In some ways, the young officer reminded Gibbs of DiNozzo.

But, finally, with a grin of his own and an amused shake of his head, Gibbs opened the bedroom door and slipped inside.

To his surprise, Ziva had already finished in the shower.

He met her wide eyed gaze from his position just inside the door, his gut sinking in realization as he realized something had changed in the few minutes he had been gone. She was poised near the bed, her body frozen in suspicion; in her eyes, he found a mixture of fear, hate, and distrust.

When she spoke, her voice was rock hard, any previous trace of the familiar-Ziva he'd seen earlier gone just as abruptly as it had appeared earlier. The question cut at him through the air, her lips almost curling into a snarl with the ferocity of her words.

"Who were you talking to?"


End file.
